Downton Abbey 1926
by Edward Carson
Summary: A Season 7 project. This story takes up Downton Abbey where Julian Fellowes left it, beginning midway through 1926. This is a serious attempt at a "real" season, embracing all the major characters, and most minor ones, and major/minor plotlines for each of them. There will be 7 (or 8) episodes plus a Christmas Special. Rated T for allusions to mature subject matter.
1. Chapter 1

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **CHAPTER 1**

 **Robert and Cora**

The Earl and Countess of Grantham were at table, seated across from each other as was always the case. Before them an assortment of food was arrayed on an eclectic - some might say mismatched - set of dishes. They were in the servants' hall at a table Cora had never graced in her life and Robert had not sat at since he was six years old.

Their plates were as yet empty, but Robert was taking in the feast before him with eager eyes. His wife was somewhat more hesitant.

"I don't think we should be doing this, Robert."

"Why not?" he demanded, looking up sharply. "It's our kitchen, isn't it? And our food?"

Cora gave him a look. "It may be our food, but it isn't our kitchen. I don't think Mrs. Patmore will be happy about this."

For a moment it seemed as though Robert were going to protest. And then the imperious set of his shoulders sagged and he grimaced. "I'll write her a note pleading extenuating circumstances. And there _are_ extenuating circumstances. She'll understand." Robert began helping himself to the food. He paused in the middle of transferring a chicken leg to his plate. "I've never had...what is it? leftovers? before. Have I?"

Cora ignored this last and, referring to Mrs. Patmore, said instead, "I hope so."

"I could blame it on the Northrops," Robert mused. "Not on their cook, but on the Northrops for _hiring_ such a dreadful cook. What a ghastly meal."

"It was a ghastly _party_ ," Cora said, with feeling. "What were the Northrops thinking inviting us to dine with the Drumgooles? And then putting me beside him at dinner? He didn't say a word to me, not one word. Awkward doesn't begin to describe it."

Robert commiserated. "No, he was saving all his words for me over brandy and cigars. And how could I respond? Fundamentally, I agree with him. I was repulsed by Tom's involvement in the violence against the Anglo-Irish landholders and I still shudder when I think of him standing by while the Drumgooles were turned out of their home to watch it burn. And I told Drumgoole so. But what can I do? Tom is our son-in-law, the husband of our dead daughter, the father of our eldest grandchild. And he...well, he's reformed."

"Is that what you said to him?"

"Something like that. And, oh, I bleated Tom's line about 'those places are different to me.' You know, that folderol about how he saw the great estates in Ireland as symbols of oppression. But I could hardly be convincing. _I_ never swallowed it."

"I imagine it will be a long time before the Northrops have us back."

"I hope they get a new cook in the meantime. How did the Drumgooles end up there anyway?"

"Lady Drumgoole is Lady Northrop's second cousin."

"Mmm. Yes. I'd forgotten. I never got round to finding out how they've been surviving. Their whole living was in Ireland and they were completely dispossessed when Ireland became independent. It makes me worry about what's in store for us around the next bend." He sighed.

Cora smiled at him. "Then we'll certainly change the subject because we can't have you worrying." She'd stopped telling him to take it easy and she wasn't scrutinizing his food, or even alcohol, consumption any more. But she hadn't left all her concerns for his health behind.

Robert had taken a bite of the meat pie. "Oh, this is awfully good! Why don't we ever have steak and kidney pie upstairs?"

"Robert."

He grinned. "This _is_ very good. I've always liked Mrs. Patmore's cooking. We should give her a raise as an inducement to stay with us forever."

Cora gave him a wistful look. "We could try, but I'm not sure we can stem those tides. _I'm_ wondering how long Mrs. Carson will want to stay. _She_ might have been with us forever if she hadn't married, but now another life is beckoning. How is Carson these days?" She rarely saw their former butler, but Robert walked with him every Monday morning.

"Do you know, he's really turned a corner. He enjoyed doing that piece for Edith's magazine. And Mama has got her claws into him about a Crawley family history. She's seeing him tomorrow about it. I don't think he can escape that." Robert finished off the remnants of his pie and took a sip of the wine he'd opened. It was the only thing he and Cora had brought to the meal. "I'm just hoping that the Carsons will stay in the estate cottage when she _does_ retire. I've gotten accustomed to Carson being down the road a bit, but I don't want to him to move across the county. And then there's Bates."

"Bates!" Cora frowned. "Where is Bates going?"

Robert put down his cutlery and folded his hands. "Well, we can't expect Anna and Bates to continue in their positions for _much_ longer. They have a child now, and while we've made accommodations for them, why wouldn't they want to be on their own, with more time to spend together as a family? I know lots of working class parents don't have all that much time with their children, but the Bateses will want to be together. They've had enough separation," he added, a reference to the tribulations the Bateses had faced over the past few years.

"Do they have any plans?"

"Oh, he's spoken of operating their own little hotel, here in Yorkshire somewhere. He's never given it any substance, but he gets a gleam in his eye. Bates would like to be his own boss and I don't blame him." Robert spoke with sincerity, if also with a tinge of sadness.

Cora remembered that she had not always thought Bates an asset to Downton, but there was no denying that he had become an important person in her husband's life. "You've always gotten on so well."

"We've gotten on extremely well," Robert agreed, and then sighed. "There'll never be anyone else like him for me, even if I do hire another valet. Just as Carson has been irreplaceable. I mean, Barrow is a competent butler, but he will never be Carson. Not to me."

"He's doing just fine," Cora said firmly. "And you ought to tell him so, on occasion."

"Why? I didn't congratulate Carson on a job well done at every turn."

"Yes, you did," Cora reminded him. "And in any case Carson was always confident of your good opinion. It was inherent in the relationship you had with him. You should be more explicit with Barrow."

"Hmmm." For a moment they ate in silence. "Did I see the remains of a treacle tart in the back of the refrigerator? I haven't had a taste of that in _ages_."

Cora obligingly got up to get it.

"At least everyone's reasonably happy," Robert said, and then his eyes went round with anticipation as Cora put the treat before him. "Mary and Henry are happily married, George remains a delight, and Stephen is a healthy little boy. Edith and Bertie are set to formally adopt Marigold and then _that_ will be off our plates, forever, I hope."

Cora was not quite as convinced by this blissful picture. "Tom's not settled," she said.

"Oh, Tom's happy in his work," Robert said dismissively.

Cora chose not to challenge him. "I suppose you're right." She took up the litany. "And Isobel and Dickie are living happily ever after."

"Yes," Robert mused. "Lord and Lady Merton. Except he's not really Lord Merton any more. He's an ex-pat aristocrat living in his wife's house while his son lords it over the county."

"When you're Larry Grey, that's a lot of lording to do. But he doesn't have the title."

"Fortunately Dickie's not conveniently accessible or Larry might...what is that American term? bump him off?" There was a glint of mischief in his eye.

"Robert!" Cora said reprovingly. "What a thing to say! And not all Americans talk like gangsters, you know."

For a moment Robert savoured the sweet pie. "Try this," he insisted, pushing the plate across the table to her. Sharing food from the same plate was a vulgarity neither would have indulged in anywhere but in the solitude of the servants' kitchen at midnight. But Robert thought nothing of breaking the rules here, having already transgressed several, and Cora blithely joined him.

"That _is_ delicious!" Cora declared. "I think it's a good thing we don't have _that_ upstairs! Think of the dentist bills!"

Robert groaned. "I'd rather not think of the dentist, thank you. Another horror." He forked the last piece of pie but his hand stilled in mid-air as another thought occurred to him. "Cora." There was a sudden earnestness in his voice and he looked at his wife with an eager, almost shy look.

Her eyes came up to meet his and she smiled uncertainly at the intensity there.

"What do you say _we_ give it all up? Hand it over to Mary, lock, stock, and barrel. We could move to the south of France, live a simpler life, _enjoy_ ourselves."

A smile returned to Cora's face at his words. "You're not at all like Dickie Merton, Robert. You could never abdicate Downton." She began to gather the dishes together. "Besides, what about my hospital work?"

He watched her construct a delicate pile of dishes and then retreat into the kitchen with them. He had smiled at her words, which were true enough, but there was a wistfulness in his own suggestion that she had not discerned. "Yes," he said quietly, "there is your hospital work."

 **Charlie and Elsie**

Elsie reached up to brush away that wayward strand of hair from her husband's forehead. It was there. She knew it would be even though she could not see it, nor even make out his face in the almost total darkness of their bedroom. The soft grey-black lock was damp from his exertions. She combed it back gently so as not to awaken him, for he was asleep already. It was always so. It usually took her a little longer.

Slowly she extricated herself from her husband's arms, extending a hand out on her side of the bed in search of the nightdress she had slipped out of some time before. Finding it, she pulled it over her head, her fingers lingering for a moment over the symbols embroidered on the breast. The gown was a wedding night gift from Charlie and she cherished it.

She left the bed and the room and headed for the bathroom at the end of the hall. The electric bulb in there was dim, but it was more than she needed. She ran the water until it was warm and then wet and rinsed a cloth. Drawing up the hem of her gown, she tidied herself up, the final act for her of a night of intimacy. They had become proficient at ... _making love_ \- it was a term she had never said aloud and even only whispered in her head - over the past year. It had been awkward at first, of course, and they'd both been clumsy and hesitant. But those old standbys - laughter and love and patience - had seen them through that phase, and now their couplings were smooth, fun, exhilarating even. And a full evening's entertainment.

And therein lay the problem, if problem it were. Practice had shown that a leisurely approach suited them. They relished the means as much as the ends and indulged themselves at every stage in this game of intimacy. But it did take time.

She rinsed out the cloth and then adjusted her nightgown once more. There were only the two of them in the cottage, but she could not contemplate the prospect of walking from the bedroom to the bathroom unclothed. Nakedness might be natural, but it wasn't comfortable, not for her. She readily conceded the necessity - and the desirability - of it in the pursuit of intimate pleasures, but welcomed discretion otherwise. Even as she pulled the folds straight, she was overcome by a wave of exhaustion and stifled a yawn. She was tired. It was past midnight now and she had to get up in six short hours. At one time six hours was sufficient, but she was finding it more and more difficult to get through a day with a such a short night. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sink as she reached up to turn off the light, she saw the tiredness in her eyes and nodded at her image. Something was going to have to change. They couldn't go on like this.

 **John and Anna**

John Bates was lying on his back, perfectly still, in his own bed in the cottage a few doors down and across the lane from the one occupied by the Carsons. He was alone. Anna was in the next room with the baby. Their son. Robert John Bates. Robbie.

Anna had insisted on John as a middle name. She believed, she said, in sons being named for their fathers. He agreed reluctantly and only because it was a middle name. They'd pondered first names - for both a boy and a girl - for months. Family was the conventional source for such things and they'd examined the possibilities carefully. Anna had rejected her own father's name.

"I hardly knew him," she said.

He had flatly vetoed _his_ father's name. "Cecil," he had said, shuddering. "What parents do to their children!"

They'd moved on to grandfathers and even considered cousins, but he'd dismissed them all.

"I don't know any of those people," he'd said.

It was Anna who'd suggested Robert. John agreed with enthusiasm. It _did_ mean something, but he'd insisted on Robbie, so that their son would have his own identity. John very much doubted that anyone had ever called His Lordship _Robbie_. He loved the way the name rolled off Anna's tongue.

They had both come awake immediately at Robbie's first cry and both of them scrambled to sit up, eager to attend to him.

"I'll see to him," Anna said, squeezing her husband's arm before reaching for the housecoat draped over the foot of the bed.

John nodded, accepting, and then realized she couldn't see him in the darkness. "All right," he'd said, as if his getting up really had been an option. He waited until she'd left the room and then fell back on his pillow, listening.

He listened to the fretful cries of their son who had what John thought must be a powerful pair of lungs given the volume of his voice. His listened to Anna's quiet tread, following her in his mind's eye out the door of their room, down the short passage, into Robbie's room. And he strained his ears to hear the transformation in Robbie's voice from plaintive cry to comforted coo as his mother took him in her arms and offered him her breast.

These sounds, now so familiar through the many nights they had spent together under this roof since Robbie's birth on New Year's Eve, soothed the father. And yet John could not help but shift restlessly. Of course it was natural and necessary that Anna should go to their son. Only she could feed him. John acknowledged this reality, but it frustrated him a little, too. Having a child had touched him in ways he had not anticipated and he yearned for some way to act on these feelings. He knew that at this stage his role was largely external - ensuring that their home and circumstances were the best they could be - while Anna saw to the baby's more personal needs. Oh, he held Robbie and awkwardly changed a nappy every once in a while. He was even losing some of his inhibitions about making funny faces and ridiculous sounds so as to evoke a smile of delight or a peal of laughter from the boy. But it surprised John how impatient he was to be a more active father. He knew it was only a matter of time. When baby Robbie became toddler Robbie, well... _then_ John would come into his own in the role.

Time wasn't the only challenge. As it now stood, the Bateses rose early every morning - all three of them - made their preparations for the day, and then set off for the Abbey where Anna and John took up the work they performed as lady's maid and valet, and Robbie went to the nursery where someone else - a nanny - cared for him all day. His parents dropped in on him frequently. It was an advantageous arrangement and superior to that of most working families. But it wasn't how John had envisaged the life of _his_ family, of his life with Anna and their child (or, hopefully, _children_ ). In broad daylight, with all the positive aspects of their situation before him, it was difficult to challenge their good fortune. But at night, when he lay in the dark, alone in their bed, listening to the sounds of his wife and child, he did wonder.

At length Anna returned to bed and John drew her into his arms, just wanting to hold her closely. Anna obligingly snuggled into him.

"How is he?" he asked eagerly.

"He sends you a kiss!" Anna replied, leaning up to deliver it. They both laughed when her lips met the side of his nose. "He's fine," she added. "He's _wonderful_."

John was swept with a cascade of feelings - love, pride, and gratitude. He was very, very grateful. His concerns for the future subsided. For a moment he was content once more.

 **Thomas**

Thomas had had a long day and he would have another one tomorrow. But the prospect of retiring to the servants' quarters at the top of the house depressed him. When he had completed his final tour of the house for the night, he slipped out the servants' entrance, closing and locking the door behind him, and then strode off into the darkness. A good brisk walk before bed helped him to relax. It was not something he could indulge every night, but he did it when the weather was agreeable and when he could not bear the silence of the Abbey.

The crunch of his highly-polished shoes on the finely cut gravel of the path made a pleasant sound in his ears. He was hardly out the door before he had lit a cigarette and he enjoyed the warmth and stimulus of drawing the smoke into his lungs and then breathing it out again. He did not smoke in the butler's pantry. Mr. Carson never had, but then Mr. Carson didn't smoke. Thomas didn't know why he adhered to that custom when the pantry was all his now and when, furthermore, as the butler he could do whatever he wanted, but he did. He had come to enjoy his cigarette breaks all the more because of this small denial.

There was no set pattern to his late-night rambling, at least not in his conscious mind, and yet it seemed that inevitably he ended up at the lane of cottages inhabited by a few of His Lordship's elderly tenants _and_ the married members of staff. Thomas tried not to pay particular attention to any of these dwellings, although he knew well enough where the Bateses and the Carsons lived. In the darkness, he paused and drew another breath of smoke deeply into his lungs before expelling it in an artistic series of rings.

The Bateses. Snug in their cottage, the happy little family. And the Carsons. How was it Mrs. Patmore referred to _their_ cottage? The _lovenest_. The term revolted Thomas a little. And irritated him. All around him, men and women living in blissful conjugal love, sanctioned by the state and society, and indifferent or oblivious to 'others' who inhabited the fringes of this cozy world.

Thomas drew a deep breath, burning off his cigarette to the tail end. As he exhaled, he tossed the glowing stub onto the lane and ground it into nothingness with his heel.

"Alone and lonely," he announced to the night. "Again." He stared at the dark windows of first one cottage and then the next. "You know, I'm getting tired of this."

 ***AUTHOR'S NOTES.**

 **On a Season 7.** I had no intention of writing a "Season 7" for _Downton Abbey._ It was too ambitious a project and would, I thought, eat up storylines I would prefer to pursue individually in more manageable pieces and which might, as separate entities, elicit more reviews (because, yes, that's why we're here, isn't it.) But then the ideas began to multiply and it occurred to me that I wanted to give it a try.

Each "Episode" will consist of two or three chapters depending on how many "scenes" there are. Each chapter will include more than one scene. The result may be a bit choppy, but I hope the narrative structure will smooth that over. I have planned seven episodes plus a "Christmas Special." It may even work out that way or perhaps there will be eight regular episodes. Almost all of the characters get a look-in somewhere - I'm not promising anything for Denker or Andy... - but my emphasis on them depends on whom I like best and the plot ideas that occurred to me. Some characters are inspiring, even if I don't much like them. (Yes, I mean Thomas here.) Others are just hopeless plot-wise and the attention they get will reflect that.

I'm not going to adhere to a "season" schedule of posting only on Sunday nights. I haven't got that much discipline. _All_ of this requires a diligence and discipline I'm not sure I've got. So...fingers crossed.

 **On Some Subject Matter.**

In the tradition of Julian Fellowes, and also in keeping with my own inclination, there are "historical" plotlines as well as dramatic plotlines exclusive to the Downton Abbey universe. I have chosen to incorporate into my Season 7 the issues surrounding the Treaty of Versailles and the attitude toward Germans and Germany in the post-First World War era. Britain was deeply divided here, with some supporting the Treaty of Versailles and the penalties it imposed on Germany and others believing the Germans had been harshly treated. A range of perspectives will be presented in this story. I have also chosen to allude to the currents of anti-semitism that existed in the elite circles of western nations. It is my intention that these elements should accurately reflect the spirit of the times and that they should be appropriate to the specific character who espouses them. As such, the views presented here belong to the characters in question and ought to be read that way.

 **On Titles.**

I couldn't think of anything imaginative to call this story, let alone any clever headings for chapters and sections, which is too bad, because I like interesting subheadings. But the text is absorbing all my creative energy.

 **On Gratitude.**

All writers know it, but all readers should hear it: the audience has a great part to play in the production of any piece of writing. Thank you, in advance, to all readers of this story and many, many thanks to those who pause to review. An internal impulse drives writers to write, but everyone works better with encouragement.

I would especially like to thank a cadre of writers/readers/reviewers with whom I have had more extensive "conversations" about Downton Abbey: lemacd, imnotokaywiththerunning, dustnik, suzie, Manygreentrees, and BorneToFlow. Your comments and questions and musings have stimulated my creative impulses, and made me think more deeply about characters and plots, and helped me to improve my writing, both in terms of plot structure and presentation. I have benefited greatly from your interest.


	2. Chapter 2

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.**

 **EPISODE 1. Chapter 2**

 **Daisy and Mr. Mason**

At Yew Tree Farm, Daisy and Mr. Mason had easily fallen into a routine. They got up early - with the chickens, as he would say. Ever since her promotion to assistant cook a few years ago, Daisy had had the luxury of an extra half hour's sleep in the morning. Now, because she had to get from the farm to the Abbey, she reverted to her old schedule. Bicycling to work, rather than walking, cut down a little on the time she had to spend getting there, leaving her a brief window in which to enjoy a cup of coffee with Mr. Mason as he had his breakfast. They talked of their plans for the day and the weather and basked in the companionable warmth of the family atmosphere of that congenial kitchen.

"Daisy."

The serious look on Mr. Mason's face dispelled the slight fog from a mind still emerging from slumber. Daisy took a sip of her coffee and willed herself to pay attention. There was an eagerness in Mr. Mason's eyes that she'd seen before, usually when he had something important - and personal - to convey. She felt a little shiver go up her spine. Was this about Mrs. Patmore?

"I've been thinking," he said. "You've been here six months now and I hope I can say that we're getting on well together."

She nodded vigorously. It was as he had always intimated it would be - family-like. Never having known anything like it, Daisy was still getting used to it. "We are," she said agreeably.

"Well," he said slowly, "it seems a little awkward, your calling me Mr. Mason."

This was an idea that had never occurred to Daisy and it startled her now. Was he going to suggest she call him Albert? The only people she called by their given names were the junior staff at the Abbey. Everyone else in her life had been Mr., Mrs., Dr., or His Lordship, Her Ladyship, my lady, or my lord. It might not even be proper to address an older person so familiarly. Daisy wondered if she could do it.

"Only..." It was apparent that Mr. Mason was himself a little nervous about his own proposal for he spoke hesitantly, almost brokenly, and this was not like him at all. "I was wondering...given that you're my daughter-in-law and all...if it might work if...but only if you'd like to, I mean...call me...dad."

It was one of the most extraordinary things anyone had ever said to Daisy. Her eyes went round in astonishment and she could only gaze at him in slack-jawed shock.

 **Mary and Henry**

The dawn light of a summer's day was shimmering through a gap in the curtains as Lady Mary slipped into her bedroom. She closed the door quietly lest she wake her sleeping husband and moved to the window to look out on the gravel drive and vast front lawn of Downton Abbey. In the distance, a ray of light glinted off the folly. Her eyes were drawn to a figure on a bicycle - Daisy Mason - peddling her way up the road and then disappearing round the edge of the house. Daisy was now one of the Abbey's "day" employees, coming up every morning from Yew Tree Farm where she had taken up residence with her father-in-law. In general, Mary was not very supportive of the shift to day employees, although she accepted the change as inexorable. Daisy, however, was different. Like the Carsons and the Bateses, she was an "old hand" at the Abbey, and could be relied upon to uphold the standards of the house. The same could not be said of the new employees who had never lived in.

Dawn was not a time of day with which Mary was very familiar. Until this year she had seen it only when she had stayed up all night, dancing until dawn. The thought of such a frivolous indulgence brought a faintly nostalgic smile to her face. Now it was different. Motherhood saw to that. This time around, anyway. She'd just come from feeding Stephen - Stephen Henry Charles Talbot - her second son. He had yet to conform to a reliable schedule, which meant that she was up at odd hours. And tired in the middle of the day.

A sound behind her drew Mary's attention and she turned to watch Henry shifting restlessly in his sleep. It was still a common habit among the aristocracy to sleep in separate bedrooms, but Mary, like her parents before her, would have none of that. She had liked going to bed with Matthew and waking up with him, and she had insisted on the same with Henry. Neither man had raised any objections. The rooms were different though. Mary had accepted Matthew's death, after a struggle, and moved on, but she had not married Henry to replace her first husband and she never wanted the shadow of one to fall on the other. Fortunately there were rooms aplenty at Downton.

Henry was a very handsome man, tall, dark, and mercurial, though not in that brooding, slightly unsettling manner that Bates had. Mary's eyes lingered on her husband, studying him with an almost detached air.

Henry loved her. She saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his arms when they encircled her in the night, and had tangible evidence of it in the personal sacrifices he had made for her. They lived at Downton Abbey in uncomfortably close proximity to her parents. She had a son, by her first husband, who was destined one day to inherit his grandfather's title of the Earl of Grantham and, with it, the vast estate. And Mary herself was committed to the protection and augmentation of her son's future, which was in fact a full-time job for her, manifested literally in the management of that estate. There were few men who would have tolerated any one of these with equanimity, let alone all three, and yet Henry had shouldered these burdens manfully and not complained about them. He was an extraordinary man and she was very lucky to have him.

The problem was that she did not love him. And she had begun to wonder if she ever really had.

 **Mrs. Patmore**

Mrs. Patmore was reading His Lordship's note when Daisy arrived. Mrs. Patmore _was_ irritated, in the abstract, with this upstairs invasion of her kitchen. They had, after all, eaten food that she had made plans for and they had left the dishes, although they'd probably have made a greater mess if they'd tried to clean up. But the note itself made her laugh. His Lordship might have asserted his right, as lord of the manor, to do what he liked in his own kitchen, in which case, of course, he would not have left a note at all. The mere fact of this epistle reflected a respect and regard for Downton's cook, independent of the sentiments expressed in it, although the sentiments themselves were revealing, too.

His Lordship had pleaded hunger, alluding not-so-discreetly to an unsatisfactory dinner elsewhere at a house not blessed with the culinary skills of Mrs. Patmore. _Flattery_ , she thought. But she liked it anyway, and it was not untrue. She knew where they had been the night before. Then His Lordship went on about not wanting to disturb Mrs. Patmore so late, as she had already put in a long day and faced another on the morrow. That was true enough, too. He'd noted, as well, that he and Her Ladyship very much appreciated all the hard work Mrs. Patmore put in on their behalf. And then he'd hoped that they'd not inconvenienced her by what they'd eaten and said that they'd tidied up as best they could, not wanting to infringe any more on her good will. And then the note had ended with, "Everything was delicious," (underlined!) "as meals from your kitchen invariably are. With warm regards, Lord Grantham."

Of course she laughed. His obsequiousness was a little overdone, but she appreciated the acknowledgment of her rights and the implicit sincerity of his compliments. And she hoped they wouldn't be making a habit of it. Mrs. Patmore folded up the note and put it in one of the expansive pockets of her apron. She thought she just might put it aside as a keepsake, a reminder of a kind employer and pleasant man.

Daisy had been oblivious to Mrs. Patmore's absorption and was at work preparing the staff breakfast and the cook had noticed.

"You're bright and chipper today!" Mrs. Patmore declared sarcastically, for Daisy had not said a word beyond a distracted 'good morning,' and was frowning in a way that told Mrs. Patmore she was deep in thought. "God help us!" the cook muttered, having had long experience with Daisy's trials.

Daisy glanced at her darkly. "I've got a lot on my mind," she muttered.

"Oh, don't we all," Mrs. Patmore responded, shaking her head a little. It was one of the pleasures of the job to have watched Daisy grow up - physically, emotionally, and intellectually - but Mrs. Patmore did sometimes miss the days when her rebukes could send tremors of fear shimmering up the spines of the kitchen staff. She sighed. One always mourned the loss of power. She turned to other things. Daisy would come out with it eventually. She always did.

Everything was well in hand when Mrs. Carson appeared. She made it a point to join the staff for breakfast most mornings, believing that it was part of her job to be present as a support to the butler and an example to her maids.

Mrs. Patmore glanced up when she came in and then stopped kneading dough so as to give the housekeeper her full attention. "The signs of wedded bliss," she said airily. "Exhaustion and contentment."

It may have been accurate, but it was entirely inappropriate, and it chased the smile from Mrs. Carson's face. Although she scowled, she didn't bother to castigate Mrs. Patmore for her impudence because she knew it would do no good. Instead, she turned on her heel and stalked off, more irritated still at not having gotten the cup of tea she had come in for in the first place.

Behind her in the kitchen, Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes. It _was_ true, she told herself, brushing off a fragment of remorse at her persistent inclination to choose wit over tact. And that was who she was and there was no fixing it at this late date. Mrs. Carson was just too sensitive when Mrs. Patmore was only having a bit of fun.

At that moment, Mr. Barrow strode in, his sharp eyes taking in the work in progress. Everything that happened downstairs was within his jurisdiction and he never stopped noticing, even when his mind was preoccupied with specific tasks.

Mrs. Patmore looked at him critically and said, almost belligerently, "I hope _you're_ not in a cranky mood today."

Mr. Barrow was accustomed to the cook's brusque ways, but this caustic comment momentarily froze him. "What did I do?" he demanded.

Mrs. Patmore only pounded the bread dough before her with an disconcerting _thwack_ and the butler hurriedly withdrew.

 **Elsie**

Elsie knew she had overreacted to Mrs. Patmore's remark, though it did rile her that her friend made such pointed remarks _and_ did so in public places like the kitchen. If she could not be tactful, could she not at least be discreet?

But Mrs. Patmore wasn't the real focus of her agitation, although she had lit the fuse. Elsie _was_ tired this morning as she was the morning after every indulgence of marital intimacy. These things took time. They had discovered, through the trial and error of their first months of marriage, that they preferred a slow-burn approach to love-making and it did not seem right to sacrifice that to time constraints. Their compromise had been to engage less often. Yet she still fell behind in her sleep and it showed. There was a reason why people married when they were young.

So she had at least to think about retirement.

She had chosen _not_ to retire when Charlie did. For one thing, at sixty years of age she was still a distance from the usual retirement age. She could carry of for another decade if she had a mind to do so.

The real consideration six months ago was whether it was the right thing to do for Charlie and she had immediately seen that it was not. His great grief - the grief at parting from work that he loved and that was so intertwined with his identity - was his own, and so must the remedy be. To retire with him would have seen him surrender the independence of his working life to an unhealthy dependence on her. Never had it been more important that he should sink or swim on his own. She had had a few moments of trepidation in those first months, as he descended into depression. And then, prompted by the Dowager Lady Grantham, and encouraged by his wife and Lord Grantham, he had begun to see his way clear. Direct intervention in the unlikely form of Lady Edith (now the Marchioness of Hexham) had given him a new lease on life. ***** And while he was only now working out the possibilities, he was a happier man. Elsie might now herself retire without fear for his independence.

But was it really necessary? She stifled a yawn and the thought of the long day ahead of her, only just begun - she hadn't even had breakfast yet - bore down heavily upon her. Marriage had not changed all that much in her life. Perhaps it should have done.

 **Upstairs Breakfast**

It was a full house at breakfast upstairs. Oddly, as the ranks thinned below stairs, they seemed to grow in the dining room. Edith could almost always be counted upon to be present, but she was gone now. Cora and Mary were the ones who had in the past taken advantage of the married woman's prerogative to take this meal in bed. But Mary had given that up when she became estate agent and Cora now opted for it only on rare occasions, having come to see it as a somewhat conspicuous class indulgence. Robert, who had often found himself the lone male in a houseful of women, was gratified by the reliable appearance at breakfast and usually at dinner, if only intermittently at lunch, of his two sons-in-law. He had come gradually and grudgingly to a liking of Tom, whom he now embraced as a son. Henry he had taken to immediately.

The room was abuzz with conversation, with everyone exchanging their plans for the day, but also dabbling in informative asides, gossipy tidbits, and the occasional political jibe. Robert was inclined to the last whenever the news gave him good material, as it recently had, in the Chinese revolution. Early in the year Britain had had to send troops to protect its interests there.

"Ah, another revolution raining down violence in the name of liberation," he sighed, with a provocative glance over his newspaper at Tom.

"Where there are oppressed peoples, there will always be violence," Tom quipped.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Why do you always rise to his bait?" she asked her brother-in-law. She turned to her mother. "How was your evening at the Northrops?"

Cora and Robert had agreed in advance not to mention the political unpleasantness they had encountered the night before. The culinary upset was another matter.

"It was a digestive nightmare," Robert responded before his wife could speak. "They employ the worst cook in England."

Thomas, who was standing at the sideboard in the place long occupied by Mr. Carson, saw Andy coming in with the morning post. In keeping with past practice, Thomas took receipt of the letters and put them on a small silver tray, along with a silver letter opener, and then approached the table. He offered the tray first to His Lordship, who cast aside _The Times_ and reached for the topmost letter. He slit open the envelope and returned the opener, and then Thomas moved on to Mr. Talbot.

As he put the letter opener back on the tray, Robert said, "Thank you, Barrow." Then he glanced at his wife and gave her a quick wink, indicating that he had absorbed her admonishment the night before to be more appreciative of the butler.

Henry took his letter and murmured his thanks absently as his eyes sought out the return address.

"Germany!" Mary declared, noting the stamp. "Why are you getting a letter from Germany?

Henry gave her a warm, but enigmatic smile. "I've friends there," he said.

Cora took the opportunity of Robert's distraction to steal his paper. Almost immediately she emitted an exasperated sound.

"What is it, Mama?"

"Mr. Chamberlain!" Cora said darkly.

"The Minister for Health? How can anyone be antagonized by a Minister for Health?"

"He was pleasant enough when he was here," Tom put in, remembering the polite, soft-spoken man who had visited Downton a year earlier.

"You liked him because you champion the underdog and you knew Granny had him over a barrel," Mary said drily.

If he did not often ignore Robert's good-humoured political taunts, Tom had no difficulty dismissing Mary's almost reflexive barbs.

"Mama?" Mary prompted Cora again.

"He seems determined to make war on the Poor Law Boards of Guardians," Cora reported. "I thought his _Widows, Orphans and Old Age Pensions Act_ was worthwhile, and necessary, but he seems to have an animus against the Poor Law."

"That _Act_ will bankrupt the nation," Robert declared, without lifting his eyes from his letter. "And the Poor Law Boards are infested with Labour supporters who are abusing the system."

Before Cora could respond, Tom cut in. "The _Pensions Act_ is less of a burden than caring for the indigent directly would be, or coping with the social problems caused by their poverty. And it's motivated by compassion. Even Mr. Churchill got behind it. He said he'd cut anywhere else to find the money."

Robert's gaze rose to meet Tom's. " _That_ should tell you everything."

"I hadn't heard about this business with the Boards of Guardians," Tom went on, ignoring Robert's comments about a Labour infestation. "I've not been keeping up with politics as I should have."

Cora held up the paper. "Read this later."

"Who's your letter from?" Mary asked Henry, thinking to redirect a conversation that was declining into tedium.

"Reinhard Morden," Henry said obligingly. "We were at Oxford together. He's heard, through a mutual acquaintance, that I'm in the car business and he wanted to get in touch."

At the word 'car,' Tom perked up. "What does he do?"

"Well, before the war, he was being groomed to succeed his father in the management of their estate in Prussia. They were largely dispossessed by the Weimar government," he added, as an aside. "But now he's manufacturing and selling _cars_."

Tom laughed aloud.

"It's a funny thing," Henry went on. "We were in the same college at Oxford. We corresponded afterwards and I met him in Berlin when I accompanied my father there on a business trip. Then, in the war, we fought on opposing sides. He was with the German Army on the Somme. We might have been shooting at each other. And now we're both in the car business and he's interested in renewing our friendship."

"It sounds to me as though he just wants to sell cars," Mary observed.

"So do we, my darling."

"Who wrote to you?" Cora asked Robert.

"Shrimpy," Robert announced, and he looked around the table to collect their surprised stares. "And he's soliciting my assistance _in a diplomatic matter_."

"I thought he'd left the Foreign Office," Mary said, frowning a little. She'd thought it ridiculous that a talented diplomat had to retire because he'd gotten a divorce, especially when his wife was one of the most disagreeable women in England, notwithstanding that she was the blood relative of the Crawleys.

"Well, he has no formal role, of course. Or salary. But you're never out of the game."

"And what world problem requires your input, darling?" Cora asked.

Robert shrugged. "I don't know yet. He's asked if I would come to London next week to discuss it."

"Can you get away, Papa?"

Robert glanced at Mary. Her pregnancy and confinement had opened a door to Robert's return to the management of the estate, which a health crisis had forced him from a year earlier. Mary, he had noted, took loss of control just as poorly as he had. "The estate won't fall apart if I leave it for two days." He turned to Cora. "It'll give me an opportunity to see Edith. She said she would be in London then and would be coming through Downton on her return trip."

"Oh, joy," Mary murmured, affecting tact but speaking loudly enough for all to hear her. She turned to Tom again. "What are your plans for the day?"

"I've got a lot of errands to run. And I thought I'd take Sybbie with me. It'll give us some extended time together." He had never reconciled himself to the aristocratic practice of seeing his child for only one hour a day and he resisted it as often as possible.

"She'll enjoy that," Cora said warmly.

"What about you?" Tom asked Mary.

She tossed her head. "Mother things."

Tom grinned. "Then I know you'll be enjoying yourself."

 **Isobel and Dickie**

At Crawley House, Lady Merton - formerly Mrs. Reginald Crawley - was looking through her wardrobe.

"Where is it we're having lunch, Dickie?" Her voice was slightly muffled, but her husband, who listened attentively to her every word, caught the gist of her question.

"The Pryors. At Crofton Grange," he said. He was across the room from her, standing by the window to which he had given his back that he might gaze at his wife. They were married not yet a year. The bloom might have worn off in other relationships after several months, but this was not the case with Dickie Merton. He well knew what it was to be unhappy in marriage and so now, blessed with a second chance - and such a lovely one! - he was determined not to let a moment go by unappreciated.

Isobel emerged from the wardrobe, dress in hand. "I think I wore this one to the Emersons two weeks ago, but I'm sure no one will notice." She was well enough acquainted with society to know that this was untrue and that her dress would probably be the first concern of every woman in the room, but she had never cared for what other people thought, especially about such superficial things, and had adopted denial as the best mechanism to sweep away such considerations.

Dickie was not of a mind to correct her. "Of course not," he intoned agreeably, not even looking at the dress. She looked wonderful in anything.

"I don't think I've attended so many luncheons and teas and dinners as in the past several months," Isobel observed. "And I'm accustomed to the Granthams' schedule!"

Dickie shrugged. "I imagine that the county is curious. About you."

She was bemused. "But I've lived here for fourteen years and no one's ever bothered with me much."

He sidled up to her, his hands clasped behind his back, and leaned down conspiratorially. "It's because I've told everyone I know five times over that you're a sensational conversationalist."

She laughed aloud at his silliness and then reached up to stroke his cheek. It hadn't come easily for them, this late-in-life romance, what with his obnoxious sons and his flirtation with a life-threatening illness that fortunately had proven a false diagnosis. He was so very different from Reginald, her earnest, ambitious, and intense first husband, by whom she had been widowed too soon and with whom she had had a son, her darling boy, Matthew. The thought of either of them - Reginald or Matthew - always stopped her heart for a moment. Dickie, in contrast, was light-hearted, witty, endearing, and so much in love with her that he was impossible to resist.

"I imagine we'll have to reciprocate, one of these days," she said airily. "In social terms, we must have amassed a great debt."

Dickie only shrugged. "Are you going to wear your garnet earrings with that, my dear? You're an absolute delight in them."

"I don't think Cousin Violet has ever worn the same dress twice," Isobel mused.

"Then she must have very large closets!"

Isobel gave him a look, but laughed again with him. "I haven't seen Cousin Violet for more than a week. I must do better."

"Perhaps after our luncheon."

"No. I'll go tomorrow, I think. After I've had my interview with Dr. Clarkson at the hospital."

Dickie opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and then forged ahead. "Why so formal with Dr. Clarkson over this hospital business? Why not just invite him round for tea?"

But Isobel shook her head. "Better this way."

 **The Dowager and Mr. Carson**

The Dowager Countess of Grantham was comfortably ensconced in her sitting room awaiting her visitor. He was, she knew, scrupulously punctual, so she could make her own arrangements to the minute. She knew he was eminently reliable in every way and this was why she had summoned him this morning. She had two tasks for him, although she had not as yet decided whether he was in fact the most appropriate individual for the second. This was, in part, why she had summoned him to the Dower House - to assess his capacity for that assignment.

"Carson."

He was a graceful man, for all that he was such a big man, and as he moved smoothly into the room she had cause once more to note this. He had always lent such an air of dignity to the proceedings at the Abbey, and especially in the dining room.

"My lady."

She was inclined to invite him to sit, for her business was of a somewhat intimate nature. But she knew Carson. Such a break with tradition and practice would get the wind up for him and she did not want that. Even as she greeted him she saw his eyes roving over her and a little furrow of concern taking shape on his forehead. He had noted her frailty. She knew he was too well bred to remark upon her appearance, so she forged ahead.

"You will recall our conversation, some months past, regarding a history of the Crawley family and of Downton Abbey, and of my interest in having you undertake such a project," she said.

He nodded. "I do, my lady." Perhaps the firmness in her voice had reassured him, for he had resumed the attentive, yet impassive mien he had always affected with her.

"At the time you lacked confidence in your ability to research and write such a volume, but in the meantime you've produced an article for Lady Hexham's... _magazine_...and she tells me it was a stellar piece, for that sort of thing."

"Thank you, my lady. I've not yet seen it myself. It's only just come out."

"Well," Violet went on, "I hope that has bolstered your confidence and made the prospect of _my_ project more appealing. Because I want you to begin it, as soon as possible."

He raised his formidable eyebrows a little, but this could not have come as much of a surprise to him. He knew how devoted she was to the family and to securing its rightful place not only in the present but also, through the past, in the future.

"There were, Your Ladyship may recall, a few ... technical obstacles," he said carefully.

She waved her hand dismissively. "Yes, you must hire an assistant to take the notes and prepare the text that you will dictate. If you will accept the ... _job_ , Carson, then you must get on that straightaway. Put advertisements in the appropriate places as soon as possible. And then there is financing. I have made arrangements with my solicitor to establish a fund for the purpose of paying both you and this assistant for the work and for any incidental expenses you may incur. You should see Mr. Fairleigh in Harrogate at the first opportunity to make it possible for you to draw on them."

"My lady, I will begin inquiries regarding an assistant immediately, but I will _not_ be reimbursed personally for this undertaking," he said firmly.

"You _will_ , Carson," she said, fixing her eye upon him.

The battle was a brief one. He sighed and nodded. She allowed herself a small smile in triumph.

"And I should like you to begin, in chronological terms, with my husband's era, if that does not seriously disrupt your approach." She made it sound as though she were giving him a choice, but he knew her well enough to discern her meaning and nodded again. "There are boxes of papers in the attics here and, of course, you may interview me." She gave one of those calculated giggles that she usually paired with the bestowal of a favour that was not really a favour. And then something caught in her throat and she coughed and then was overcome by a coughing fit, her whole body wracked with the spasms.

Carson abandoned his formal bearing and hastened to her side. He quickly poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her side table and then crouched beside her, holding it out to her. He even, in an unprecedented departure for him, patted her tentatively on the back.

Eventually, the spasms did fade. Hoarsely she gasped, "Thank you, Carson," and took the glass of water from him. Her hand shook a little but she managed to take a few small sips, and then, after a deep breath, sat up straight once more. "Thank you, Carson," she said again, nodding at him gratefully. He was kneeling beside her now and she could look him directly in the eye. There was apprehension in his face. She had shocked him with this display of debility. He would be asking after her health in another minute or preparing to summon the doctor.

In that moment of meeting him on this level, of seeing so clearly in his face his emotional reaction to her little fit, she decided against raising the second task with him. Persuaded, at least superficially, that she was well again, he stood and they resumed their conversation. They spoke a little more about the practical details of the history project and of her expectations. She found, not at all to her surprise, that they were on exactly the same page on each of her concerns. Well, that was what made him the perfect choice for this effort, wasn't it? The family could have as easily hired a professional writer - Edith could have put them on to someone - to take it on, but no one save Carson was so devoted to precisely the same conception of the Crawleys' place in history. The story he told would be that which the Crawleys - or, at the very last, Violet - wanted to be told.

After he went away, Violet breathed a slight sigh of relief, and then her own brows knitted in thought again. Carson had been her first choice for the other task as well. His loyalty was unquestioned. But he cared almost too much and that was his flaw and, if she were honest with herself, she'd known that all along. She would have to choose someone else. But who?

 *** Author's Note:** The story of Carson's post-resignation dip into depression and his emergence from with, with a little help from the Dowager, Lady Edith, and Elsie, is chronicled in _Enough of That_.


	3. Chapter 3

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.**

 **Episode 1. Chapter 3**

 **Charlie and Elsie**

Charlie Carson had conventional expectations of his wife including that she would take primary responsibility for domestic chores such as getting the meals together. And this is how it was in the first months of their marriage. If they did not eat at the Abbey, then she would put breakfast on in the morning and supper at night. And so it might have gone on had not their lives taken an unexpected turn with his forced retirement. Things hadn't changed immediately. In the depths to which he had descended following his resignation as butler of Downton Abbey, he had continued to expect and she to provide that essential function of every day life.

But when he had emerged from the haze of depression and self-pity into the real world of his days at leisure and hers still filled with the demands of her job as housekeeper at the great house, he had seen things differently. They had a relation as husband and wife, but it was just a year old. They had, however, worked together for almost thirty years and in that capacity had been more flexible in terms of where their responsibilities began and ended. In his half century of work at Downton Abbey he had never failed to muck in when necessity required it and he had suddenly understood that their own situation demanded just that.

And so he had taken up cooking, not every night but most nights, doing all the work some of the time and making most of the preparations otherwise. Cooking did not come naturally to him, but he could read a receipt. He avoided things that required a lot of peeling, as the unpredictable spasms of his palsy made such tasks laborious and potentially dangerous. But there were a few dishes he'd made his own and he had come to take a small measure of pride in doing so. They sat tonight over a boiled dinner. The preparation did involve cutting, but nothing fine and he was careful. It was a simple meal and they both enjoyed it.

Elsie had spent the day pondering her future - their future - and wanted to talk about it, but force of habit prompted her to ask him first about his day and she could see he was eager to convey his news.

"I met with the Dowager this morning and..."

"Oh, my lord!" Elsie's cutlery clattered on her plate and a look of remorse appeared on her face. "And I forgot all about it and wasn't here to help you!"

It wasn't just peeling potatoes or handling bottles that had become difficult. He'd been shaving himself for fifty years and now it had become a dicey proposition. His father, afflicted with the same debilitating palsy, had bled to death after a hoof knife slipped and nicked his femoral artery. ***** He looked with a new wariness now at the straight razor he had wielded without conscious thought for decades and Elsie, at one with him in his caution, often helped him with this. She'd suggested, tongue in cheek, that he might grow a beard like King George, but he had not graced this remark with a response. He'd been clean-shaven all his life and would remain so. And on the occasions when she was unable to shave him, either because he was still in bed when she left or she was in a hurry, he had found an alternative.

"Not to worry," he said, with a gentle gesture of dismissal. "I went into the village. Mr. Braddock was glad of the business."

"Well, I am sorry," Elsie said. "I know it's important for you to look your best when you're seeing the Dowager. What did she want then?"

"Only what we thought," he said, and told her about the book project. "She was quite insistent I get started immediately. I wrote out the notices for employment this afternoon," in a now shakier script, "and will put them in the post tomorrow."

"I wonder that she's so interested in the story of the Crawleys," Elsie mused. "She's not one of them, after all, not by blood."

Charlie frowned a little. Elsie did not set that much store by history. She thought people ought to get on with their lives and not spend so much time looking back. Her husband disagreed profoundly. She did not have, he thought, much appreciation for how much the past shaped the present and the future, especially with regard to the stories of great families and great nations. "She _is_ a Crawley," he said firmly. "By marriage. And her son is a Crawley."

Elsie shrugged this off. "So she's got her talons into you again," she said this lightly, although she was only half joking. When he did not take her to task on this, she looked up at him. He seemed more perturbed than he ought to have been at her irreverence. "Charlie?"

He raised his troubled gaze to her. "It was only... There was something about her. She seemed more...fragile than I've ever seen her."

The Dowager, Elsie knew, had a place in her husband's heart, so she suppressed an inclination to brush off his concern. "She is eighty years old," she told him gently.

"Eighty-two."

"Well, then?"

But he didn't really know. "Things just weren't...right."

They finished their supper and then moved to the sitting room, Shep, the great red-gold-sable collie, following them sedately. Getting a dog had been His Lordship's idea and Elsie had not been certain, at first, how her fastidious husband would adapt to having an animal in the house. But Shep had fit right in and now neither of them could imagine their lives without him. His facility for anticipating Charlie's tremors had also proven invaluable. ******

On the table in the hall, Elsie noticed the already addressed notes about which he had spoken and briefly shuffled through them. "You're not advertising in London, surely," she said to his back.

"Just in a few papers."

This perplexed her. "But you want a local girl. No one will come all the way to Yorkshire from _London_ for a project like this."

There it was, again. Her disdain for history. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, frowning.

"Oh, don't get your back up," she said soothingly. "If you were a professor at Oxford, it might be one thing. But this is a private work for the family, largely. All you want is someone to take notes and to type things up. _And_ who can be discreet."

"I want the very best," he countered stiffly. "And I've got the money to pay for it."

Elsie let it go, certain it would sort itself out. No one from London would bother.

She poured the sherry now and he didn't even think to regret the surrender of this task any more, only being careful to put his glass down when he was not drinking so that a sudden tremor did not lead to spilled sherry on the sofa.

This was the moment for Elsie to raise her own preoccupations of the day. As was her wont, she took a direct approach.

"Charlie, what would you think of my retiring from Downton Abbey?"

They were sitting side by side on the sofa and his face was in profile to her. Even in that half-glimpse of him, she saw his face brighten, his eye widen with elation, but his voice, when he spoke, was deliberately casual.

"Retirement," he said, turning toward her. There was an eagerness in his eyes, even as he tried to maintain a facade of equanimity.

She slid a hand over his. His hands were always warm. Her fingers travelled lightly over the bones and the veins, now so familiar to her. "I always accepted the rule against servants marrying as a matter of course. But I've begun to appreciate the sense of it. I may not _be_ eighty-two, but some days I _feel_ like I'm eighty-two!" She said this lightly, hoping to make him smile and give himself away.

But he didn't smile. Instead his hand tightened in hers and his gaze turned smouldering. "Let me assure you, love," he said softly, holding her eyes with his, "you _never_ feel like you're eighty-two."

And even though they'd been married for a while and had achieved a degree of comfort in their intimate life, she felt her face grow warm with this suggestive remark, and was glad to see that he'd flushed a little, too. She swatted him gently. "Go away with you!" She heaved an exasperated sigh, largely for effect, and pulled her hand from his. "I'm _tired_ ," she said. "In the mornings." Before he could distract her again, she moved ahead quickly. "I'm not at all sure I'm doing justice to my job, and...," without thinking about it, she reached out to stroke his face, "I'd like to spend more time with my husband."

He turned into her hand and gently kissed her fingers. "I'm sure you're giving as much to your work as ever," he said confidently. "But...your husband would be delighted to spend more time with you," he said. He leaned over her and their lips met in several soft kisses. After a little while, he withdrew a little. "Are you only thinking about it? Or have you made up your mind?'

"I wouldn't make a decision like that without talking to you," she said, though she appreciated his regard in the matter. He was a man like other men in many ways, but the boundaries of their work responsibilities had allowed for some of the autonomy exercised there to be carried over into their marital relationship. He did not tell her what to do where her work was concerned.

"There _are_ things to think about," she went on, and then hesitated. "It'll be hard for me to give up earning my own money."

"You'll have a pension of sorts from the family..."

"A pittance."

"And we've income from the rental of our house," he went on. "That's _ours_ , not mine. And there's my pension and investments. And it's not as though we've any major bills to pay, not living here."

All of this was true, though her uneasiness remained. Still, that wasn't the really important thing. "I've been tired," she said again. "And I'd like to focus on us. To make all we can of the time we have together."

This time he said nothing, only gathered her into his arms.

"And you wouldn't mind having me around all day?" she murmured, when the opportunity presented itself. That wasn't a question he could really answer, not until they'd tried it, but she wondered what he'd say.

"I've always had you around all day," he reminded her, "and I've missed you." He had been nuzzling her neck, but now desisted for a moment. "I only want to be sure you'll be happy," he said. "Retirement isn't as easy as it looks, you know. It takes some time to get used to."

She wanted to roll her eyes at this. Had she not agonized through every day with him as he struggled to make this adjustment at the beginning of the year? "So I understand," she said circumspectly.

He took both her hands in his again and his expression was a serious one. "I want you to do what's best for you, Elsie."

"I want to do what's best for us," she said.

They did not fall on each other as a more youthful or perhaps more impulsive couple might have done, but the passion that surged through them as they moved smoothly into each other's arms was no less intense. It was a particularly pleasurable several minutes. But when he suggested wordlessly that they might advance to the next stage, she pulled back.

"I _do_ have to work tomorrow," she said, affecting sternness, but he saw right through her on that.

He stood and drew her up after him and into his arms again. After two more light kisses, he breathed, "Then let's get you to bed."

 **Robert and Cora**

From Robert's point of view, it had been a good evening. Mrs. Patmore's dinner was so much better than the abominable food the Northrops had served up the night before. He sent his compliments downstairs with Barrow. Perhaps Cora was right and they ought to be even more appreciative all around if they wanted to keep their remaining staff.

After the meal the men sat for a while with brandy and cigars in the dining room and it was almost like old times. Oh, they talked about different things now, but it was the male camaraderie that Robert liked. Henry was interested in the estate, more than practicality dictated as he had no hand in it, but he wanted to know more so that he might converse intelligently with Mary about it. Henry was his own man and that was a good thing. Robert could see now that Tony Gillingham would have been a doormat and that wouldn't have been good for Mary. Henry adored her, but he didn't let her flatten him.

When they'd joined the women, the conversation lightened up a little, as Tom talked about his day with Sybbie and Mary related the latest accomplishments of George and Stephen. She was spending more time in the nursery than ever she had, and knew more about her children.

Robert took it all in, but his gaze kept flickering back to Cora. She sparkled, he thought. _Sparkled_. She always had. Yes, he had married her for her money, but he wouldn't have married her _just_ for money. There were other American heiresses. All the things that had drawn him to Cora particularly - beauty, charm, wit, intelligence - had only increased with maturity. He was very fortunate.

He came out of his dressing room feeling quite warmly disposed toward Cora and hoping to find her similarly inclined. The vision of her, already tucked into bed with a book open in her lap, only enhanced her desirability. He slid into bed beside her and leaned over to press his lips to that enticing spot on her throat, just below her left ear. She giggled a little at his touch, though she did not lift her gaze from the book.

"What are you reading?" Robert asked, running the tip of his tongue along the artistic curve of her neck. He was not really interested in the answer.

"A volume of the _Report of the Royal Commission on the Poor Law and Unemployment_ ," she answered promptly, lifting the tome a few inches off her lap. ******* She turned to him, her eyes alive with enthusiasm for the topic. "Can you believe we had this in the library? It's only the summary, of course, not the whole thing. I wasn't even looking for it. I must have passed it thousands of time. And yet this afternoon, somehow my eyes were drawn to it. And just after we were talking about the Poor Law this morning!"

"What a coincidence," Robert murmured. It occurred to him that if Downton still had a librarian, he would sack the man for making such an acquisition. "Why are you reading it?"

Cora's gaze fixed on a spot across the room, as she gave this some thought. "I just want to _know_ , Robert." She paused, trying to find the right words. "There's so much I don't know about how the world outside of Downton Abbey works, and I want ... I'm beginning to think I _need_ to know it. It's the only way I'll figure out what role I should play in it."

She was sitting upright, the book gripped in her hands, her chin up, thinking.

"Do you know," he said mildly, giving voice to the thought that had just come to him, "I'd always thought Sybil was an anomaly. Perhaps she came by it honestly, after all."

Cora turned her expressive eyes upon him once more and he saw that they were damp at his words. "That's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me, Robert." Her voice broke a little over these words and she swept him into a heartfelt embrace, the book wedging itself uncomfortably between them. She pulled back and there was a look of longing in her face. "To be honest, I think I got it from Sybil, not the other way around."

He hoped that this moment of warmth might take them further, but she picked up the book again. "It's not that I'm going to follow up on this Poor Law business with Mr. Chamberlain, but ... it couldn't hurt to learn a little more about it."

"No," Robert said, falling back into his pillows. "I suppose it couldn't."

 **Mary and Henry**

Henry had never had a valet. His family's financial situation had never stretched to it. Robert had hired a valet for Matthew and pressured him to accept the service both before and after the war. But times had changed - there was truth in that old cliché - and Henry's marriage to Mary had given rise to no comparable imposition or even suggestion on Robert's part. If Henry could manage without help, all the better for Downton's staff budget.

Mary had never been without a lady's maid and it never occurred to her that doing so was even a possibility. Anna had served her in that capacity for so long that job and individual had become intertwined in Mary's mind. She could not readily imagine life without Anna. But even that sacrosanct relationship was subject to change and Mary obliged to accept that fact. Anna had a child now and it simply wasn't realistic - or humane - to put the baby to bed in the nursery only to get him up later in order to take him home. It did not take much deliberation to arrive at a solution: Anna would dress Mary for dinner and then go to the cottage with Robbie. Bates continued in his duties, heading home after having attended to Robert as he had always done. Mary would undress herself, relying on Henry to help her when needed. It was an arrangement that suited them all, although Mary would have agreed to it for no one but Anna.

"It seems more natural this way," Henry said, making sure he got Mary's discarded dress hung up properly. She didn't get cross with him when he did it badly, but the look of exasperation on her face was something he wanted to avoid.

" _Natural_ ," Mary said drily, "is the thing to which one is accustomed." She knew that Henry was looking at her with a desiring eye. Undressing together fed that. She was not put off. She might privately despair over her emotional detachment from her marriage, but this did not extend to their physical relationship. She had always enjoyed sex and he _was_ her husband. There was nothing wrong in indulging in it. And they were both enthusiastic and adept lovers, so she wasn't cheating him there.

While she brushed out her hair, Henry got into bed and struck a deliberately sexy pose. She almost smiled. He _was_ so very good-looking and his silk pajamas fell like a sleek second skin across his lean and muscular frame. He had very nice shoulders.

"I've been thinking."

Mary met his eyes in the reflection in the mirror. "Oh?"

"Yes," he said deliberately, staring back at her. "We've been married for a year now, and I think we ought to consider finding a house of our..."

"No." Mary said this flatly, cutting him off.

"...own," he finished, and then frowned. "Can we not talk about it?"

"No," Mary said shortly. She tossed down the brush, threw off her dressing gown, and got into bed beside him, turning slightly so as to meet his dispirited gaze. "You've never mentioned this before," she said querulously. "Why now?"

"It seemed right, at first," he said slowly, "to live at Downton. We had a bit of a turbulent start." He was trying to cajole her into good humour, but Mary would have none of it. Her expression remained stony. "Well, we've a family now and..."

"We've been a family all along." Mary's voice was sharp. "You remember George."

His colour began to rise. "Of course, I do, darling. I only meant that we _do_ have our own family and that it would be...natural...to live together, on our own. We don't have to move off the estate," he added, "just...somewhere on our own."

Mary did not really want to know what had prompted him to this outlandish idea. She had thought that their arrangements were both acceptable and permanent, and resented his challenge to this. "You do understand, I hope, that George is the heir to the title of the Earl of Grantham," she said in a formal tone. "To succeed in that position, he must grow up at Downton Abbey where he will learn to appreciate what that means. Papa will be his mentor."

Henry was sceptical. "He's only five years old, Mary. A few years out of the spotlight might be good for him."

"I disagree." She had almost cut him off again.

Silence fell on them for a moment, and then Henry leaned toward her, his voice filled with a quiet eagerness. "Try to imagine us - the four of us - together in our own house, Mary." His hooded gaze rested on her and she felt the measure of passion that lay behind those intense eyes. "You, me, George, Stephen..."

But Mary was unmoved. "The four of us _and_ another cadre of servants? Our own cook? Housemaids? Butler? We can't afford that."

Henry was no Sir Richard Carlisle and Mary was eternally grateful for that fact, but it meant, too, that he did not have the financial wherewithal to establish an independent home. And why should they, in any case? She would never agree to move, especially not with George. As if to indicate that this was her final say in the matter, she reached over and turned out the light.

In the darkness, she slid down under the covers and turned away from him. He didn't deserve her cold shoulder. She knew that. But this was not the moment for him to pour more water on the dying embers of their relationship by raising a sensitive issue like this. She felt Henry roll over onto his back and imagined him staring up at the ceiling.

After a few minutes' silence, he said, "I've written to Reinhard Morden to invite him to Downton. Should I ask your father before I send the letter?" His tone was neutral, but his words stung her, all the same.

"You don't need anyone's permission to have guests, Henry," she said, trying to temper her own unsettled feelings. Then she added, "Downton is your home."

He said nothing.

 **END OF EPISODE ONE.**

 ***Author's Note 1:** The information about the death of Carson's father is something I made up. It is related in greater detail in _I Loved Her First_ , Chapter 3 "The Heart Stirs Again."

 ****Author's Note 2:** Carson acquires Shep in _The Way We Live Now_ , Chapter 2 "Surprises." The dog's intuition regarding Carson's infirmity is alluded to in Chapter 3 "Fundamental Truths."

 *****Author's Note 3.** In the parliamentary systems of Britain and those former Dominions that remain constitutional monarchies, Royal Commissions are specially appointed investigative bodies that study a particular problem. Their usually extensive reports often make fascinating reading, in part because they include substantial witness testimony regarding the subject. They also help a government to avoid making a decision or addressing a problem by delaying it through the appointment of a Royal Commission. Such investigations take months and sometimes years, and a government may be out of power by the time the Commission(s) it has appointed report.

 _The Royal Commission on the Poor Law and Unemployment_ , appointed in 1905 and reporting in 1909, had a profound impact on the organization of assistance to the indigent of Britain and laid the foundations for the reforms (although "reform" is a dicey word here) enacted under the authority of Minister for Health, Neville Chamberlain, two decades later at the end of the 1920s.

 **On Posting:** This may slow a bit - I can't promise to post every day. But I will promise a diligent effort.


	4. Chapter 4

**DOWNTON 1926.**

 **EPISODE 2.**

 **Chapter 1***

 **Tom and Henry**

Tom and Henry strode from the house to the garages at a brisk pace, talking excitedly about their shop and their plans for it. They were admirably suited for a partnership in cars, as both shared a consuming passion for automobiles in their every aspect. Tom divided his time between affairs on the estate and the shop. Henry was involved full-time in the business in York.

Downton still had two chauffeurs for the Rolls Royce and the Limousine in which Robert and Cora were driven around, but the younger men had their own cars, housed side by side in what had once been, before the war, carriage houses. The estate still maintained a stable of riding horses and Robert, and sometimes Mary, and recently the children, rode them, but the elegant matching pairs of high-stepping carriage horses were long gone.

"I ought to be there by ten," Tom said, as he approached his car. "Don't start working on that Vauxhall without me."

Henry laughed unsympathetically. "I'll have it _done_ before you get there."

Tom laughed, too, knowing that this was not so. He pulled open the door of his car and such was the distraction of Henry's remark that he almost missed the great mess on the driver's seat.

"What on earth...?" For a moment he could only stare. There on the seat was a large, moist, and quite pungent cow patty on a bed of straw.

"What is it?" Henry came round to look. He turned to Tom. "Who've you riled?"

"Kids!" Tom said, shaking his head and then looking around the garage for something to use to clean it up. "Someone's idea of a prank, no doubt. Best check your car and the others."

Henry did so and then returned to watch Tom take a shovel to the dung. "Only yours, I'm glad to say. How would it be to send the car to pick up Robert and Edith at the station this afternoon with it reeking of cow manure."

Tom did his best to clean it up and then, resigned, threw a car blanket over it. "Well, I'll do a better job at the shop. I've got to get on now."

"You're taking this remarkably well," Henry observed, wrinkling his nose.

Tom shrugged. "It's a prank." Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added with a wry grin, "I'm in no position to throw stones. During the war, when I was conscripted, I had big plans to announce myself as a conscientious objector and embarrass the British Army, only I was rejected on medical grounds. So I decided to pour a bucket of slop, including a cow patty, over a visiting general. General Sir Herbert Strutt," he added, making the name sound pompous.

It was an anecdote that might have stirred anger in some, with its irreverence for the cause to which so many Englishmen had sacrificed so much. But for Henry the war was over and he heard Tom's story in the light-hearted spirit with which Tom imparted it.

"Good God!" he said in astonishment. "And you're still here?"

"It didn't come off. Long story. Mr. Carson dragged me from the dining room before I could do any damage."

Henry threw back his head with a loud guffaw. "Carson wrestling you down! I would have paid money to see that!"

"Yes, well, my life would have changed dramatically, and not for the better, if I'd gone through with it. But you do stupid things when you're young and politically motivated."

"If I've finished with the Vauxhall, I might help you clean that up," Henry said, waving Tom off.

 **Mr. Molesley**

They were into the final days of the summer term and Joseph Molesley, standing before his class in the Downton village school, could hardly believe how much at ease he felt. He'd been trained as a valet and butler, but though he had done the jobs competently enough, he had never been entirely comfortable. There had always been so much about which to worry, so much pressure to get it right. He'd thought that was just the way he was, but now he realized it was because he hadn't been in the right place. There was a great deal of work involved in teaching, but he loved every minute of it. And he loved the children, too. They were bright and curious, most of them - though he had a soft spot for those who weren't - and he enjoyed opening the doors of their minds, helping them learn to see beyond the narrow confines of their lives in a small English village to the possibilities that existed. The world was more accessible than ever it had been and he hoped, in some small way, to prepare them for it.

He'd even been able to relax at work and sometimes to depart from the set lesson for the day when the children's queries and comments raised worthwhile avenues of discussion. So it was this morning, when he'd opened the floor to questions, any questions, just to keep them actively attentive in the classroom rather than looking longingly out the window as if the freedom of the holidays were lurking out there, beckoning to them. He was startled by the first question.

"What did you do in the war, sir?"

In retrospect, it was surprising that no one had asked before. It was a question for which every man over twenty-five and under sixty could reasonably be expected to have an appropriate answer. They all looked at him with eager eyes, keen to hear his story. And he gave it to them. It came rolling off his tongue as though he'd been practicing for this moment for years. A self-effacing demeanour came naturally to him and he fell into it now, his tone half-rueful, half-resigned.

"I was deemed unfit, medically," he said, a little mournfully. "M'lungs," he added, pointing at his chest. And he sighed as though this were a great sorrow for him.

They were disappointed. They had come to admire him, the village children. He told a good story and he made lessons lively. He expected things of them, but also encouraged and helped them so that the goals he set were attainable, if they made an effort. They'd hoped, naturally for some stirring personal account, peppered with details of life in the trenches perhaps. But he had nothing more to say. It was an awkward moment, but it passed and they moved on to other topics.

But the question hammered away at Molesley, even as he went through the motions of the lessons for the rest of the day, for although the story was true enough in its essentials, the fact at the heart of it was a lie. His lungs had not kept him out of action. It was a lie _about_ his lungs that had done so.

The outbreak of war in 1914 hadn't disturbed him unduly. It would be over by Christmas. And then it wasn't. And then the numbers of volunteers had begun to dry up, put off by the ghastly news from the front, the horrendous death rates, and the almost as frightening spectre of the wounded. Although he was at the older end of draft-age men, he still waited with trepidation for the letter to come. It didn't, but only because the Dowager Countess had intervened, in what others saw as an outrageous exercise of influence and for which Molesley had been very grateful. But when this came out and he faced the possibility of being thrown into the conscription pool, he had approached Dr. Clarkson and confirmed the lie that the Dowager had already created - that he had weak lungs. The doctor had been sceptical, but acquiesced, only advising Molesley to do _something_ for the war effort, and he had agreed. And then done nothing. Perhaps that was what had driven him to support so enthusiastically Mrs. Bird's _ad hoc_ soup kitchen run out of Crawley House.

Dr. Clarkson never mentioned it, but he knew. As did the Dowager, Mrs. Crawley, and his Dad, of course. No one ever said a thing. And he had been able to put it to the back of his mind where it was easy to convince himself that it was in the past, gone, not to be trifled with again. He'd had an uneasy moment at the dedication of the war memorial, especially when his eyes fell on Mr. Barrow, who'd done his bit admirably and been wounded, too. And when he saw the names of William Mason on the cenotaph and Mrs. Patmore's nephew memorialized independently. And then the crowd had dissipated and he'd tucked that uncomfortable thought away again.

He passed the cenotaph every day, walking to and from the school, and could see it, through the branches of the oak tree just outside, from the window of his classroom. Until today, he'd taken no more notice of it than any other building or structure in the village. But now, even after the children's attention had turned elsewhere, his eyes kept straying to it.

Because he realized this wasn't just a burden on his conscience, although it was certainly that. There were other things, other _people_ , to consider now. He had not confided in Miss Baxter about his wartime behaviour because he had not let himself think about it. Now he must. She had, he thought - he _hoped_ she had - a good opinion of him and that would be dashed with this revelation. He would have to tell her, for he could not now imagine going forward in their ... relationship ... yes, he supposed he could call it that, ...without doing so, now that the thing had raised its ugly head again. She would revile him for it, as would anyone of sound mind.

 _What did you do in the war, sir?_

 _I was a coward._

And now he was lying to children, too.

 **Mary and Anna**

"I gave no thought to it at all when I married Mr. Crawley," Lady Mary said, pausing only to shift the child at her breast. She did so with some ease now, although it had been a bit of a challenge at first. It had come as a surprise to her that she had to learn how to breast-feed her own child. Wasn't that knowledge just innate? "Perhaps because I didn't have to change my name," she continued. "But it's odd, still, to think of myself as a Talbot. And of my son as a Talbot." She smiled down on the dark-haired infant who was preoccupied in the moment with a late morning meal.

She sat with her son in the nursery and across from her, with her own child suckling contentedly, was Anna. Robbie Bates was five months older than Stephen Talbot, and though just as hungry, now had the wherewithal to return his mother's fond gaze while he ate. Although it was no longer a novelty for her, Anna could hardly tear her eyes from her son. She had waited a long time for this miracle of life, and she gave in only reluctantly to any distractions from it. But she did acknowledge Lady Mary's words with a quick glance.

"I feel sorry for George," Mary went on. "No, I feel badly about him. I as much as abandoned him for the first six months of his life. I hardly ever saw George before he was Robbie's age. And he had a wet nurse, as Sybbie did. Only George's mother wasn't dead. I'm ashamed of myself," she added.

Now Anna did look up. "You were grieving, my lady." At the time she had thought Mary self-indulgent, but seeing her now with Stephen softened Anna's perception.

"Too much," Mary countered. "That is, I was grieving badly. Of course, I loved Mr. Crawley ... very much..." Even now she felt that constriction in her chest that always came upon her when memories of Matthew surfaced, "...but George shouldn't have had to suffer for it with my neglect. And that," she said, smiling down at the infant in her arms, whose tiny fist was waving in agitation, "is why Mummy is here with you, my darling." She looked up and caught Anna's eye. "I mean it. But I do still miss working. Time slows to a crawl when you're dealing with a baby. Look at you. Robbie is six months old and here you still are."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, my lady," Anna said lightly, but with conviction. Anna, who very rarely made demands on anyone, was determined to care for her son as much as she could, and for once had put her own concerns first. She had wanted a child, this child, for so long and endured so much to have him, that she would let nothing interfere with motherhood. Work would have to accommodate to this. Fortunately, Lady Mary had concurred. Carrying her own child had, perhaps, made her more sympathetic. Or possibly it was the bond with Anna that had made it acceptable.

"They grow up much too fast," Anna said, her eyes falling on her child again with an adoring look. She cherished these moments with her son. When he was weaned, Robbie would need her less and she would have fewer rationalizations for visiting him so often during her working day.

"Well, I'm glad you're here," Mary said. "It's more fun to do something together."

Anna gave her a warm smile. She and Lady Mary had a long history of collaboration that made them more than employer and employee, but she heard an odd wistful note in the other's voice.

"I do love the time I spend with Stephen," Mary said, lest she'd been misunderstood. "It's just relaxing my hold on the reins of the estate that bothers me. I had such a battle getting them in the first place. God knows what Papa is up to without me." She raised her eyebrows, tempering the apprehension in her voice with this expression of amusement.

"It'll all still be there for you to take up again, when you're ready," Anna said confidently.

They sat quietly for a few minutes.

"Anna," Mary began casually, keeping her eyes on Stephen, but acutely aware of Anna's body language. "Did you ... go off ... Bates, just a little, after you gave birth?"

Anna knew Lady Mary well and heard in her voice both a yearning to confide and a reticence at doing so. _So that's what's been bothering her_ , Anna thought. She liked Mr. Talbot, but she had wondered. Lady Mary, who was not easily pushed in anything, had, Anna thought, been pushed about by Mr. Branson and Mr. Talbot himself a bit, last summer. Perhaps too much. But this was not for her to say and she could only respond to Lady Mary's question directly and in honesty. "No. But it would take a lot more than a baby to put me off Mr. Bates, my lady, given what we've been through together." She could say this cheerfully now, now that their dark days were behind them. "It takes a lot of an adjustment, a baby. But it passes."

Mary gave her a quick smile and nodded, grateful that Anna had not turned her question back on her. Having a child did change things, but the birth of her sons had not been as disruptive to Mary's life as Robbie's had been to Anna, because of the different levels of support they had. Yet Anna had not succumbed to the malaise that gripped Mary. And that was a troubling revelation.

 **Cora and Elsie**

The two women were seated at the delicate writing desk that had come down through the Crawley family from Robert's great-grandmamma. His mother had consigned it to storage, finding it too ornate for her tastes, but Cora had resurrected it for her sitting room. It was by the window so that whenever she looked up from her correspondence, her eyes fell on the cultivated expanse of the east lawn and on the rose bushes that had been planted to welcome her to Downton so many years ago. But when she raised her eyes from the account books this afternoon, it was to meet the gaze of a woman who had worked at Downton for thirty years and who Cora could not, in all honesty, say she really knew.

"There," she said, with a note of finality, closing the ledger before her. "That's done. Was there anything else?"

Mrs. Carson said nothing. Nor did she move. Cora put her head to one side and waited.

"Yes, my lady. There is."

The other woman's gravity affected Cora. She folded her hands in her lap and adopted a sober demeanour to match that of Mrs. Carson. "Is it something serious?"

Mrs. Carson smiled a little. "Serious, my lady, but not sombre. I've been thinking about retirement." She looked directly at Cora as she spoke. Mrs. Carson always had an open manner, one of the many things about her that Cora admired.

"Are you finding it too much?" she asked solicitously.

"Well," Mrs. Carson said, almost with a sigh, "it was never too much for Mrs. Hughes. But, yes, I've discovered, in very practical terms, why it was that servants did not marry."

Cora smiled sympathetically. "I was saying as much to His Lordship, only the other night. I mean, that it must be a challenge for you to balance work and home life now. You've always given so much to Downton." She paused and then said delicately, "Were you thinking of retiring outright?"

This brought a puzzled look to the housekeeper's face. "I wasn't aware that there were options," she said.

"It isn't just Carson who hates change," Cora said, with a rueful grin. "The rest of us just don't show it as blatantly. I would hate to lose you." She thought for a moment. "The fact is, we're going to have to overhaul the whole way we run the house, and possibly the estate. We've made some cuts and the bulk of the house staff live out now, but we've just been nibbling around the edges so far. It's going to take more than that." Again she paused.

"I respect your wishes, Mrs. Carson. If you would like to retire, we can discuss when you'd like to submit your resignation and I'll put Barrow onto advertising for a replacement. But .. I don't want to pressure you, because I _will_ accept any decision you make, but... would you consider reducing your hours?"

This perplexed Mrs. Carson. "The work is still there, my lady. Someone will have to do it."

"Yes. And you're very conscientious, so I can see that things might begin to pile up again for you, even with the best of intentions. But..." A shrewd expression took form on Cora's face. "...we might be able to manage that. Would you consider a part-time position?"

The housekeeper clearly had not imagined this possibility. She looked thoughtful. "What did you have in mind?" she asked carefully.

Cora's mind was racing. "Well, you could make up a list of all your duties and we could review them, see if there are any natural dividing lines where responsibility might be handed off to another employee, possibly a junior housekeeper. Or we could expand the role of the head housemaid. You could maintain control over, say, the books and the stores, and perhaps the overall administration of the housekeeping staff, any place where there was a significant degree of authority and trust." As she spoke, Cora became more animated about it. "You could draw up your own working schedule."

When Mrs. Carson remained silent again, her bright blue eyes alive with this unexpected offer, Cora hastened to reassurance. "I'm not trying to talk you out of your decision, Mrs. Carson. If you're intent on retiring, you know that His Lordship and I will wish you all the best and that we would make a very generous settlement with you, in gratitude for your long service at Downton. I am proposing an option. You must feel free to make a decision that will suit you. You and Carson." Cora spoke with a ringing sincerity. There was no one among the staff for whom _she_ had any more regard than Mrs. Carson.

"You're very generous, my lady," Mrs. Carson said at length.

Cora favoured the housekeeper with one of her glittering smiles. "Not generous so much as pragmatic," she admitted. "It's only natural that you should want to spend more time with your husband, especially so early in your marriage. Downton will not stand in your way. But...," she added, almost a little mischievously, "if we can make it work..."

Cora's manner was infectious and Mrs. Hughes gave her a warm smile in return. It was uplifting to Cora only insofar as she had so rarely secured such a response from the housekeeper.

"I'll draw up a list, my lady, and see you about it in a few days." Mrs. Carson got to her feet.

"That'll be fine," Cora said. And then another thought occurred to her. "Oh, there was something else I wanted to ask you, not that ... Well, I'll just ask."

Mrs. Carson looked intrigued by this.

"Do you know anything about local application of the Poor Laws?" When the housekeeper stared at her, flummoxed, Cora almost winced. "I ... know. It's a strange thing to ask. I've just been reading about Mr. Chamberlain and his war on the Boards of Guardians, and trying to find out more about the Poor Laws, but it all seems very remote to me. I'm not...suggesting...that you've had any acquaintance with such things, Mrs. Carson, of course not. But... do you know anything?"

She had clearly taken Mrs. Carson by surprise, but the woman regrouped quite quickly. "I've been reading about Mr. Chamberlain's reorganization of the Boards, too," she said. "As for more direct information... There is a Union workhouse in Ripon, my lady. Were you aware of that?"

Now it was Cora's turn to be surprised. Dumbstruck, even. "In _Ripon_? How have I never come across it? Well, there's no answer to that, is there? I wonder if I might... go there." She looked inquiringly at Mrs. Carson, as if that woman would know.

And she did know. "You can, my lady." Mrs. Carson seemed to be considering something. "I visited someone there once. He was an acquaintance of, ...well, of someone I know."

The housekeeper's circumspection almost brought a smile to Cora's face. Mrs. Carson was very discreet. It only one among many characteristics that had made her such a valuable employee. "Thank you, Mrs. Carson. That is a useful bit of information."

 ***Author's Note:** I'm going to re-number the chapters with every episode, going back to Chapter 1 for the beginning of Episode 2, and the beginning of subsequent episodes. I don't know if it's less confusing to do it this way, than to number them consecutively throughout the story, but it just seems like the right way to go.


	5. Chapter 5

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.**

 **EPISODE 2. Chapter 2.**

 **Daisy and Mrs. Patmore**

Mrs. Patmore was impressed. Several days had passed before Daisy confessed her secret. Maturity, Mrs. Patmore mused, came in surprising forms.

"You know Mr. Mason," Daisy began, in a deliberately casual voice that gave her away immediately.

For a moment, Mrs. Patmore held her breath. Was ... was this about _her_ and Mr. Mason? There was nothing between them. Oh, he'd been quite attentive ever since he'd moved to Yew Tree Farm and at New Year's he'd hinted at a deeper interest than a neighbourly sort of exchange. But then spring had come and with it the inevitable and absorbing lambing season and he'd been buried in work. And Daisy had always seemed resistant to the idea anyway. So...

"He's asked me if I'd like to call him 'dad.'"

Mrs. Patmore blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Daisy repeated what she'd said. This gave Mrs. Patmore a moment to recover.

"And?"

Daisy stared at her. "That's it."

"That's it?" The cook slammed the heel of her hand into the hill of bread dough before her. "What's got you bothered about that?" She spoke sharply. Goodness! _That_ wasn't a problem!

Long accustomed to Mrs. Patmore's crustiness, Daisy read nothing into this reaction beyond the cook's impatience with almost everything. Instead she launched into a litany of the thoughts that had been swirling in her head since Mr. Mason had spoken.

"Well, I _am_ his daughter-in-law and he already treats me like I'm his daughter, having me out to the old farm and now living at Yew Tree Farm so he can teach me the business. And he's given me lots of good advice like a father does. And it's not like I even remember my own father, so it's no insult to him. Or his memory." She frowned a little. She didn't even know if her father were alive or dead.

"So?" Mrs. Patmore couldn't see why Daisy was wrestling with it. All she could think about was what this said about Mr. Mason, who was a very fine man.

"But..." Daisy took a deep breath. "What if I don't want to stay on the farm? What if I decide I'm not cut out for that and I want to do something different? I wouldn't want to disappoint him or let him go on thinking we're...family, when I might leave."

Mrs. Patmore punched the dough with a vehemence that made Daisy jump, which in itself gave the cook a small jolt of satisfaction that she hadn't lost all of her former fearsomeness. She had supported Daisy's pursuit of education, believing the young woman to have a good head on her shoulders, if she were properly trained up to use it. But Daisy had gone from an apathetic resignation to her life as a kitchen drudge to a bit of a fly-by-night, flitting erratically from one option to another, satisfied with none. She fixed a fierce gaze on her one-time protegé.

"Daisy. Children come and go. That's what they do. Mr. Mason knows this better than anyone." And then she muttered something about education having been wasted on the wrong people.

"What?"

But Mrs. Patmore only glared at her. "There are people in this world with _real_ problems, you know."

These words irritated Daisy. It was what people always said when they didn't want to hear about your concerns. Instead, they compared you to someone who was worse off, as if that had any practical application to your own dilemma.

"Have you got a problem, Daisy?" Anna had come in with a tray from the nursery. It wasn't, strictly speaking, her duty to take care of this, but she'd been on hand.

"Not to my way of thinking," Mrs. Patmore muttered and then disappeared in the direction of the larder.

Anna looked at Daisy. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

Having confided in Mrs. Patmore at last, Daisy had no qualms about repeating her news to Anna and reporting, too, the cook's reaction.

"Oh, but that's nice! And Mrs. Patmore is right. When you embrace someone like that, you don't take it back because they've decided to move to Leeds or something."

"Maybe," drawled Daisy. "But there is something else. You know I didn't love William when I married him. I felt...like I _had_ to? Everyone - well, Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Mason - wanted me to. And I did it. And...all right, I've come around a bit on that, though it were false. But Mr. Mason - he's the only one who doesn't know it. It's still there between us. Shouldn't you be honest when you love someone, Anna?"

"Yes," Anna said promptly. "And no."

Daisy stared at her as though she had two heads.

"It's a fine line," Anna said carefully, "and one that no one but you can navigate for yourself. What you have to decide is _why_ you want to tell him. Sometimes ... often ... it's best to clear the air. But sometimes, it's just about ourselves. Lots of people carry burdens of guilt, Daisy. Only children have the liberty to unburden themselves on others without regard for the consequences."

"And Catholics," Daisy said unexpectedly. "When they sit in those dark little boxes with the priest listening."

Anna smiled wryly. "And Catholics. You think on it," she suggested. "It'll come to you, what's right."

The conflicted expression on Daisy's face faded. "Thank you, Anna."

 **Dr. Clarkson and Lady Merton**

Dr. Clarkson tried to pay attention to Lady Merton's disquisition on the place of Downton Cottage Hospital in the greater North Yorkshire Hospital Scheme, but it was a struggle. His mind kept straying to how it was when she first came to Downton and was so eager to play a part in the hospital's actual work, rather than its administrative affairs. His had been the voice of authority then, and she had chafed under it in the face of his resistance to her new ideas. He readily admitted now that he _had_ resisted them. They had both adjusted and he'd liked it best when they worked together, in a partnership of sorts, toward the provision of better service for the people of Downton. That was the atmosphere within which he discovered he'd fallen in love with her. She'd put him off - gently - and he'd accepted her reasons. She did not want to marry again and she did enjoy the company of good friends, among whom she counted him.

Things were different more recently. She'd embraced the hospital reorganization scheme as part of the march of progress and vaulted over him to assume a senior administrative role that had _him_ reporting to _her_. She wasn't his employer, but she was his superior. And then she'd married Lord Merton and risen in the social ranks above him as well. And still she flitted in and out of the hospital, no longer the practical, capable nurse who he had so much admired, but instead another bureaucrat convinced she knew better than the medical practitioners. He had to strain, these days, to find in her the woman who took a personal interest in the patients.

His attention came back to her abruptly when he heard the word 'retire.'

"I beg your pardon?" Even after more than a quarter of a century in Yorkshire, his voice retained the soft burr of his native Scotland. And his clear blue eyes that saw everything fixed on her with a look of bemusement.

She was staring back at him with her eyes wide with the excitement of a new idea. Mrs. Crawley - Lady Merton - he had learned long ago was a zealot. She seized on an idea, usually a good idea, with the tenacity of a terrier and campaigned for it tirelessly. It was one of her more attractive features to him.

"You ought to take some time for yourself," she said vigorously. "You've been hard at it for decades. You could find something to do that you enjoy."

Ah. Now he understood what she was talking about. He frowned. "This is my _life_ ," he said, with feeling, but still softly spoken. "I enjoy _this_."

"Of course you do! But there's more to life than work, Dr. Clarkson. People can change. I have." She added this proudly.

This declaration pained him. "Yes," he said. "You have."

A look of confusion flashed briefly across her face and then she brushed it off, evidently deciding not to take offense or to pursue it. "Now," she said gaily, getting up. "I must be off."

"I, too, have an appointment," he said mildly, standing as well. "By the way," he added, "I'm sorry I had to postpone our meeting until this week. People get sick."

She gave him an understanding smile. "Of course."

They walked out the door together and turned the same way. The doctor was glad their conversation turned to other things. Lady Merton began to tell him about her grandson, George, which was a much more congenial topic. Dr. Clarkson saw the boy occasionally, from a distance. He was a very healthy child and had no need for the doctor's services. They walked on, past the church and the graveyard, and by the school, he expecting any moment that they would part, as she headed off to Crawley House. But she did not and minutes later they found themselves at the gate of the Dower House.

"I thought I'd drop in on Cousin Violet," Lady Merton explained, "but if you have an appointment."

"I do." He did not like turning her away from her visit, especially as he thought the Dowager Lady Grantham would enjoy seeing her dear friend, but he had business of his own with Downton's matriarch.

"Well, then, I shan't disrupt that," Lady Merton said, clearly a little disappointed, but taking this news in stride. "Give Cousin Violet my love and please tell her that I'll drop by another day."

He nodded and for a few seconds watched as she retreated down the street.

 _Retire_? _And do what_? She knew better than anyone that caring for the residents of Downton was his life's work. What on earth was there for him here _other_ than his work? Everyone he knew in Downton he knew exclusively through the prism of his position at the Cottage Hospital. It was an anomalous situation wherein he existed on the social ladder in that lonely spot between the aristocracy on the upper rungs and the villagers and common folk on the lower ones. He had rubbed shoulders with the Crawleys and their ilk only occasionally and under special circumstances. He could not now imagine that he would, in his retirement, take up evenings of card playing with Lord Merton. Lord Merton. In the doctor's opinion, he was an affable if slothful man who had done nothing with his life, and who was content to mingle with his equally ineffectual peers at deadeningly dull teas and dinners. It was a source of continuing bewilderment to Dr. Clarkson that Lady Merton had embraced this life, when she had found it so empty of meaning for a dozen years past.

But he could not dwell on her. The Dowager awaited. It gratified him to know that she, at least, was in no hurry to push him toward retirement.

 **Tom and Mary**

Tom and Mary were having their weekly discussion about the affairs of the estate. They were in the agent's office, at Mary's insistence.

"We'll take it more seriously," she'd said, meaning _he_ would. And he knew it.

"You don't have to keep checking up on things," Tom said patiently. "If there was anything really important to discuss, you know I'd tell you about it."

She turned her steely gaze on him. "Stop treating me like I'm a woman, Tom. I mean it," she added, catching the look in his eye. "Papa has lapsed. I won't have it from you."

"All right." He knew enough not to challenge her.

They got on with their business.

"And that's it, really," Tom said, three quarters of an hour later. "Robert knows more about the individual farms. He's been out touring them. _In the car_. With the _chauffeur_. They don't often get a Rolls Royce in their farmyards."

Mary was slightly amused, but more interested in something else.

"What's wrong, Tom?"

He was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

But Mary only put her head to one side and raised an inquiring eyebrow, in a look that would not be gainsaid, unimpressed with Tom's attempt to forestall her.

He sighed. "It's nothing."

She continued to stare at him.

"I might ask you the same question," he countered boldly.

"I asked you first. Come on, Tom. It's a simple question."

He meditated on it for a moment and then fell back heavily in his chair. "All right," he conceded, his shoulders sagging a little. "It's about Sybbie."

"Sybbie!" She had not expected that. "And here I was thinking you had a broken heart or something. What's wrong with Sybbie?" Her concern grew when she saw a pained look cross his face. "Tom?"

"It is a broken heart, in a way," he said quietly. "I've been spending some time with her lately."

"I know. And I thought you were both enjoying that!"

"We were. We are. In a way. That is, it feels right to spend more time with her and we get on very well. She's a bright girl. Like her mother." He paused.

"And her father," Mary added. She was very fond of her brother-in-law.

"Well. But...do you remember last week, I took her on some errands?"

Mary nodded. Tom had reported on their day at dinner that evening. Things had seemed all right then.

"We went up to Condor Farm. They've got a large family, the Flemings. Several of the children are Sybbie's age - a little older or younger. I told her she could go play with them while I talked with Mr. Fleming and she ... wouldn't. She wouldn't get out of the car. She said she didn't play with ... _that sort_. _That sort_ ," he repeated.

A light dawned for Mary. She could hear the disappointment in Tom's voice.

"And then I heard her telling a little girl on another farm that she wasn't going to go to school in September, but would have a governess at the Abbey, because she wasn't like everyone else."

"That'll be Nanny talking," Mary said gravely.

"Those words came out of the mouth of _my_ daughter, Mary. _Sybil's_ daughter."

"What did you say to her?"

"Nothing. Then. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. And ... I wanted to think about it before I talked to her."

"Admirable self-denial. I couldn't have managed it."

He gave a small laugh at this. They both knew it was so.

"And ... it's made me think," he went on, becoming serious once more. "When I decided - when Sybbie was little - to live here at Downton, it made sense. She was a baby, there'd be more people around her - her family, _Sybil's_ family - and I would be working anyway. I never meant for it to be permanent, but we've just kept going. And I was all right with it. More or less. Until this." He stared earnestly at Mary, who was trying to contain her own reaction to his words. "I don't want my daughter to be like that, Mary."

"Well, I hope you knew that I don't want George - or Stephen - to be like that either."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said with a quick smile. "But there's more to it with Sybbie. I made a big fuss about having her baptized as a Catholic and yet I let her go off with the family to the Church of England service every Sunday."

"Why shouldn't she be bored by Reverend Travis like the rest of us," Mary mused irreverently.

Tom ignored that. He was watching her closely, trying to gauge her reaction. "I've made some decisions. Some big decisions. I hope I can count on your support."

Mary was tempted to make a humourous allusion to Tom's turbulent relationship with Miss Sarah Bunting, a former schoolteacher in Downton Village, an interlude that had led her to doubt his sense, but reined in her wit. Instead she said, "Go on," in as encouraging a tone as she could muster.

He took a deep breath. "I'm going to start taking Sybbie to church myself on Sunday. To the Catholic Church in Ripon. It's only what I ought to have been doing all along. We're the only Catholics in the family. It's my responsibility. I should see to it."

"I'd be glad to fob off such a responsibility on someone else, if it meant _I_ didn't have to go to church," Mary said. And then she sighed. "But I know it means a lot to you, Tom. Papa and Grandmamma will fuss, but not seriously."

He continued to watch her intently. "And I've decided to send her to the village school in September. It's not Catholic, but it is local. I'd like Sybbie to have school friends where she lives. I'll have to arrange with the church for preparations for the sacraments, but I think it's a good compromise."

Mary's head had gone up at this. "The village school! With Molesley teaching her!"

"Not for a few years yet," Tom said. "And I hear he's quite good. But ... yes. The village school."

In his voice Mary heard a little more of the Irish inflection. Was it a mark of his determination in the face of anticipated resistance? "That's going to be more of a challenge for Papa," she said, exhaling heavily.

"What about with you?"

But Mary was not going to fall out with him over this. "I'll fight your corner on that, too, Tom. I wonder about the wisdom of it, in terms of the education she'll get. But, then, I learned almost nothing from governesses, so how can the village school be worse?"

"There's a recommendation," Tom said wryly.

"Although the image of Sybbie tripping along every morning, down the road from Downton Abbey to the village school... Well. It does seem an awkward contrast." She frowned at the look on Tom's face. "What is it?"

"There's more," he said slowly. "We're going to move out of the Abbey, Mary."

At this Mary's jaw went slack in shock. It was not a look that suited her. "What?"

"Not off the estate," he said hastily. "I was thinking of the agent's house. It was only where we were going to go in the first place. It's empty still. You'll not be using it."

He'd meant nothing by it, had no context with her for that remark, but it stung a little anyway, when she remembered Henry's desire to have their own home.

"Will you stand by me in this, too?"

"Of course," she said, almost crossly. "And so what if Papa is aggravated. You must be able to live your own life, Tom." Again thoughts of Henry flitted through her mind. She brushed them aside impatiently. "That might make it easier for you to build a relationship with someone," she went on, trying to regain her composure as she struggled to digest this.

"Romance _is_ a challenge in the fishbowl of the Abbey." He spoke more easily now that she had heard him out. "But that's not why I've made that decision. All things considered, I think it's the best one for Sybbie and me."

"Papa will miss you at the dinner table," Mary said lightly.

"I'll come every Sunday, just like any other average son-in-law."

This good-natured exchange revived them both.

"That's a lot of decision-making," Mary observed. "And in so short a time. It took you a year to decide to move to Boston."

"And four months to decide to move back! It wasn't right for me. It took a long time to make a bad decision. I'm willing to risk a few considered but immediate decisions now."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Well," Mary said at last. "That was momentous. When are you going to tell Papa and Mama?"

"Soon," he promised. "Now." He sat up straight and leaned toward her a little. "What's on your mind?"

Mary's face tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm not ready to talk about it. And even if I were, I'm not sure you're the right person with whom to do so."

Tom gazed at her keenly. "Find the right person, then," he said. "Get it off your chest."

An impassive mask descended on her fine features. "I will when I need to."


	6. Chapter 6

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.**

 **EPISODE 2. Chapter 3.**

 **Tom and Henry**

"What happened to you?"

Henry was coming down the grand staircase and Tom was on his way up. They paused together on the landing. Tom stood with hands outstretched so as not to touch anything. There were black stains on his hands and shirt, and a few smudges on his face.

"Grease?" Henry asked, staring critically at the substance.

"Ink," Tom said grimly.

"Ink! Did your pen explode?"

Tom was not in the mood for joking. "No, it did not," he said curtly. "The ink well had spilled all over my desk in the agent's office and I didn't see it until I went to move some papers, and then it was on me."

This did not clarify matters for Henry. "How was the ink well spilled?"

"How should I know!" Tom caught himself, looked away for a moment, and then muttered, "Sorry."

"All right." Henry could see that Tom was aggravated about this and justifiably so. "Did you knock it over without noticing? Maybe you were in a rush earlier, or something."

"No. Everything was fine when I was last there." Tom hesitated. "I was wondering if the children had been there."

Henry shook his head slowly. "Only you and I take the children there. Nanny wouldn't have gone there with them. Mary never does." He thought for a moment. "There's always some children from the village, I suppose. Or the estate. The ones who did you car the other day, for example."

"I don't know."

Attempting to lighten the fraught atmosphere, Henry added, "Isn't it funny that stuff like that always ends up on our faces?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's very funny, Henry. Look, I've got to go get cleaned up. Make my excuses in there, will you?" He nodded in the direction of the library.

"Of course." Henry stepped away. "And I always thought you were such a dapper fellow," he mused mirthfully, and darted out of the reach of Tom's ink-soiled hand.

Tom started up the stairs, but then paused to look back over his shoulder. "It's not you, is it?"

"No," Henry said. He was still smiling, but he spoke soberly. "I'm beyond schoolboy pranks."

They went their separate ways.

 **In the Library**

By the time Tom had gotten cleaned up, the family - including Violet - had gathered in the library. He paused by the door, observing them for a moment before he joined them. They were still the stylish aristocratic family they had been when he first came to Downton as a chauffeur before the war. Henry fitted seamlessly into this tableau but Tom, for all that he had learned to be comfortable in their midst, had remained an imperfection in the fabric.

Edith, now Lady Hexham, had claimed the centre of attention, which was an unaccustomed role for her. Mary, who stood to one side with Henrym was not pleased by this but was feigning indifference skillfully. Tom, who knew better, smiled and stepped into the room. Edith immediately rose to embrace him. They had always got on.

With Carson's departure they had finally abandoned the prohibition on drinks before dinner. Barrow had no objection to this. As Tom moved to the side table to collect one, Henry joined him. "You clean up well," he said with a smirk, giving Tom the once-over.

"My shirt is ruined," Tom murmured.

On the table between the sofas, Edith had strewn a few copies of _The Sketch_.

"I thought you might like to see the article on throwing a grand dinner in style," she said, addressing them all. "The photographs make Downton look stunning."

"Downton _is_ stunning," Mary said, with a tight smile.

Edith glanced her way and said mischievously, "You may have to break your vow never to look at _The Sketch_ , Mary. After all, Carson wrote the article."

As though Edith had issued a dare, Mary crossed the room and swept up a copy of the magazine. She would not have her sister tell what she would or would not do.

"May I see one?" asked Violet, and Robert, who was surprised by this, obligingly handed her one. "I've commissioned Carson to write the history of the Crawley family and would like to see how he writes."

"Shouldn't you have investigated that _before_ you signed him on?" Tom inquired. The Dowager Lady Grantham - he had never called her Violet - remained the most formidable member of the family, but he had achieved a level of familiarity with her that permitted this impertinence.

"He agrees with me on everything," Violet responded, taking the question seriously. "That is the thing of first importance."

"He writes very well," Edith interjected. "In fact, he's much more accessible on paper than I've ever known him in person."

"To you, perhaps," Mary said.

Edith glanced her way. "Yes. To me."

Mary looked up from the article where she was valiantly attempting to contain her pride in Carson while affecting to be unimpressed about Edith's publication. "I thought you'd be pregnant by now. Isn't Bertie in need of an heir?"

Robert and Cora looked at each other and shook their heads.

"There's time enough for that," Edith responded in a breezy manner. "You and Matthew waited. Besides, we're in the process of formally adopting Marigold. We'd like to settle that first."

Mary subsided for the moment. Edith had unknowing touched a nerve. Mary and Matthew had _not_ deliberately delayed the conception of a child. They had instead been thwarted by a physiological impediment in Mary's anatomy that had required a small operation. George followed quickly thereafter, but Mary remembered the anxiety occasioned by her initial inability to conceive.

"How confusing will that be for her," Violet said into the conversational lull, referring to Marigold.

Edith, whose relationship with her grandmother waxed and waned between great affection and resignation, raised her voice a little. "We're thinking of having a party when we do, a sort of christening equivalent, without the church parts."

"Is that wise?" Violet asked, more delicately than anyone would have thought possible.

"You can't be serious," Mary said disparagingly. "Hasn't anyone been asking embarrassing questions up at Brancaster, as in, 'Why does Lady Hexham, who has not previously been married, have a child?'"

Edith shrugged, as though shaking off an irritating fly. "People don't tend to challenge the family of the _Marquis of Hexham,_ " she said, emphasizing Bertie's title.

"They never give up, do they?" Cora murmured despairingly to Robert.

He was shaking his head. "No, but Edith's giving as good as she gets. Fancy that!"

Cora favoured him with her most engaging smile. "She has a loving husband and she's got a thriving business. Love and success make you happy. I should know."

Robert basked in the warmth of his wife's compliment.

"Tell us your news, Robert," Cora said. She said this a little more loudly so as to draw the attention of the room. They all looked expectantly at Robert.

"Have you been appointed ambassador to some exotic nation?" Henry inquired, a little tongue in cheek.

"Shouldn't have accepted if I had," Robert responded promptly. "I don't really like other places." They all laughed at that.

"No, nothing so important," he said modestly, but with an enigmatic smile. He glanced mischievously at his mother. "I know Mama will be particularly pleased by my news."

"Oh, dear," shuddered Violet. She gazed at him in apprehension.

"Shrimpy arranged for me to meet with some members of the Foreign Office. They're concerned about the state of Anglo-American relations and want to do something to improve them."

Edith made a small, impatient sound. "Translated that means that the Germans are getting more favourable treatment from the Americans and that our side is worried."

"You're up on politics," Tom noted.

Edith shrugged. "You just pick those things up in the city."

"And your role?" Cora prompted her husband.

"You all know, of course, that the current American Ambassador is Alanson Houghton."

"What kind of a name is 'Alanson'?" Violet interrupted in a deeply disapproving voice.

"He likes country life," Robert went on, ignoring his mother's interjection. "He comes from a small town."

"In western New York," Cora put in.

Everyone looked her way.

"So Edith's not the only one knowledgeable about diplomacy," Henry murmured.

"And he's particularly interested in Yorkshire," Robert added.

"That's very suspicious," Violet said firmly. "No foreigners are interested in Yorkshire."

"They've asked me to give him a weekend in the country. In Yorkshire."

"Aren't there lots of country estates around here?" Tom asked. "Or is this Shrimpy's doing."

"Why would anyone _want_ to go anywhere else, when there's Downton?" Mary demanded, frowning a little at Tom.

Robert turned his way. "Shrimpy made the recommendation, but they thought I was well-suited to the task of bridging the cultural gap."

"You are a natural mediator," Edith said.

"And pro-American," Robert added.

"Really?" Cora was only half-joking.

Robert leaned over to kiss her cheek gently. "Yes, my darling. There is a lot that I love about America."

She laughed. "That's the first I've heard of it."

He took her teasing in good humour. "Of course, my darling. I married an American, after all."

Violet snorted in dismay. "It will all probably end in disaster like the _last_ time you entertained a foreign diplomat!" she scoffed.

There was a long, awkward pause, during which Henry and Tom exchanged puzzled glances while the rest of the family gazed with some consternation at Violet, who pretended she did not know why they were doing so.

"Thank you, Granny," Mary said finally, rolling her eyes just a little.

Henry noticed his wife's exasperation and sought to smooth things over with a re-direction of the conversation. "Did you ever fancy a career in the diplomatic?" he asked Robert.

"Golly, no!" Robert took a sip of his drink to fortify him at that prospect. "I preferred the military. Soldiers say what they mean. But this isn't really diplomacy. It's a social function, really."

"Have you got any dates?" Henry asked. "Because I've invited my friend from Germany for the twenty-fourth. I can always change the date, if it's inconvenient."

But Robert waved away this concern. "Not at all. We'll have the Ambassador after that."

"There is one other thing," Henry said carefully, his gaze shifting from Robert to Mary to Violet and then back again. "He's asked if he might bring a friend who's attached to a firm that does business in London. He's a ... champagne salesman."

Violet started and clasped a hand to her chest. Edith quickly went to her side, before realizing that it was a reaction primarily for effect. "What have we done to deserve _that_?" Violet demanded.

Robert and Mary joined her in staring Henry, seeking an explanation for this colossal imposition. Henry was not daunted.

"He's a fallen aristo. Another casualty of the Weimar Republic. Von...something. I can't remember and I left the telegram from Reinhard upstairs."

Robert looked pained, not quite recovered from the idea of entertaining a wine merchant - not that Downton hadn't seen worse at the dinner table - but shifted quickly to resignation. "The aristocracy is doing all sorts now." He might have been wondering what he would turn his hand to when the axe fell on him.

"It's good for them," Tom said impudently and smiled good-naturedly into the glare Mary levelled at him.

"I think it's a good idea to renew friendships and business ties in Germany," Edith announced. "We're all Europeans. Surely we can get past the war."

Mary regarded her icily. "I would have thought that you, of all people, would revile Germans."

Edith did not rise to the bait. "Criminals killed Michael," she said firmly, surprising her parents with the equanimity with which she spoke the name of her first lover and the father of her child. "The National Socialists, or whatever they call themselves, are hardly representative of the German nation. It's the country of Goethe and Heine. I've met several German writers and artists in London. They're lovely people. Cultural life in Berlin is exceptional these days."

"That's news to me," Mary said sardonically.

Edith cast a slightly condescending look her way. "You need to get out more, Mary."

"Imperial upstarts!" Violet said suddenly and in a scathing voice. "We were bringing civilization to the world while they were still in short pants!"

"I'm not sure that's how the world sees it," Tom murmured, at a volume only Henry could hear.

Cora was casting about for a way to draw the conversation back into calmer waters and found a momentary distraction in the arrival of Barrow.

"My lady," he said solemnly, striking a pose by the door.

Cora looked around at them all. "That's dinner, everyone."

As they made their way past the butler, Cora caught Robert's eye. Keeping peace at the dinner table was going to tax all their social skills.

Edith fell back and drew Mary aside, waiting until the room was empty before speaking.

"What's wrong with Granny?'

"There's nothing wrong with Granny!" Mary looked irritated at the very thought, or perhaps came across so because she was already aggravated with Edith.

Her sister did not respond in kind. "Mary," she said quietly, "Granny is not herself."

The gravity of Edith's remark brought a line of worry to Mary's forehead and she glanced involuntarily at the door through which their grandmother had just departed, leaning - perhaps too much - on the arm of her son. Mary's gaze returned to Edith.

"What do you mean?"

Edith shrugged. "She seems ... frailer. I'm not suggesting you or Mama or anyone else has been negligent, Mary. Sometimes when you see someone frequently, it's hard to see change. It happens so incrementally. But I've not seen her in weeks."

There were few things that could bring Mary and Edith together, but their grandmother was one of them. Mary nodded. "I'll pay closer attention."

For the moment, it's all they could do.

 **Carson and Thomas**

"You were late again, getting back." Thomas's stern words reverberated through the half-open pantry door into the passage. "And you were a mess when you did show up. There was a special dinner on tonight," Thomas went on coolly, "on account of Lady Hexham's visit. I had to have Miss Baxter bring things up to the servery. That's not her job."

"I know, Mr. Barrow. I'm sorry." Andy did sound remorseful. "I wasn't even handling the pigs today, but I slipped in some muck in the yard on my way out. I knew I had to get back early."

"I don't know why you were there at all, on a day like this." Thomas's tone was unforgiving. "I've only got one footman, Andy. You're it. You can't let me down like that."

There was a murmured exchange and then Andy emerged from the pantry, red-faced and looking sheepish. His shoulders were slumped in a downcast manner. That was one thing about Andrew, Carson mused, as he watched the young man make his way to the kitchen. He erred, but he accepted a rebuke without whinging about it.

Carson had been on his way to the housekeeper's sitting room when the conversation between the butler and the footman fell on his ears. He ought to have gone on, but he had a professional curiosity about Barrow's management style and about the problems he faced as butler of Downton Abbey in this era of retrenchment. He thought about what he had heard for a few seconds and then rapped on the closed over pantry door. When Thomas spoke, he put his head in.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked delicately.

The classic Barrow scowl disappeared beneath an impassive mask. "Good evening, Mr. Carson. To what do I owe the pleasure?" The formal words were devoid of warmth.

Carson moved farther into the room. He nodded back toward the departed footman. "An administrative challenge, perhaps?" He tried not to look about the room, to catalogue the changes Barrow had made - few though they were - in the past months, or to indulge in a sense of melancholic nostalgia for what had been. Containing such impulses had gotten easier of late. He was moving on.

"Nothing I can't handle," Thomas said smoothly. He'd always been very good at suppressing his thoughts and feelings. It was part of what had made him an excellent footman.

But there was something there. Carson waited. A butler had few, if any, confidants. The only person who could really understand the responsibilities and the pressures was another butler and a house never had two, so occasions for confidences were rare to non-existent. Downton was, with the residence of a former butler on the estate, an exception.

Barrow was clearly meditating on it. They'd come to a bit of a truce, Carson and Barrow. They'd worked together well, but not warmly over the years. There was both mutual respect and dislike between them. But part of the adjustment Carson had had to make in retirement was accepting Mr. Barrow as his successor. When, finally, he let go - the emotional surrender following months after his physical departure - he'd been able to see Barrow more clearly as an able heir to the downstairs kingdom. And to appreciate that the best way he could ensure the high standards he had set at Downton Abbey was to support the new butler in his work. Though it still did not come easily to him.

So he waited patiently now. It was for Barrow to decide where they would go from here.

"There's to be a party of Germans, next week," Thomas said abruptly, not looking in Carson's direction. " _And_ a diplomatic party shortly after that. The American ambassador." He glanced sharply at Carson as he imparted this, interested in his reaction. Had he conveyed this information to anyone else, it might have been deemed indiscreet. But they both knew that professional confidences exchanged between them were sacrosanct.

Thomas's shoulders heaved, though his voice remained neutral. "It's all a bit much with just one footman."

"And that one gallivanting off to Yew Tree Farm," Carson intoned.

Thomas made a dismissive gesture. "I don't mind that so much. Or," he corrected himself, "I wouldn't, if there wasn't so much to do."

He wasn't complaining. Carson understood that because he apprehended the extent of Barrow's responsibilities. "What about Mr. Molesley?"

But Thomas shook his head. "He might come, if I asked. But he's got a different life now. It's not...fair."

It surprised Carson a little to hear Barrow put it that way. He was showing more consideration than ever he had. Although perhaps it was pride, too, and a reluctance to show Molesley that he needed him. It was self-defeating, but Carson thought he could understand that, too. _He_ would not have wanted to go cap in hand to Molesley.

"I regret that I cannot be of service," he said formally.

This elicited a nod of acknowledgment from Barrow. "I'm still ... working out ... how to get on with the show," he said at last, but he looked slightly less tense for having spoken his frustrations aloud. "Would you care to sit, Mr. Carson?" he asked abruptly, gesturing to a chair before him.

"No. Thank you. I've only come to..." Carson inclined his head toward the door, indicating the housekeeper's sitting room. He had arranged to meet Elsie this evening, to walk home with her.

"Where the dog?" Thomas asked, arching his neck to look around Carson. The collie accompanied Mr. Carson everywhere.

"Lured to the kitchen by Mrs. Patmore. Mr. Barrow."

Thomas looked up so that they were facing each other directly.

"You must have a second footman. Put it to His Lordship. You're adept at sleight of hand and can, most of the time, create the illusion of managing it all on a shoestring, but even you cannot magically reduce the work of many to that which can be managed by a few."

There might have been a compliment buried in there somewhere. Carson himself wasn't sure.

"The budget won't stretch to it, Mr. Carson," Thomas said tonelessly.

But the former butler was unimpressed. "The budget _must_ stretch to it," he said firmly, "or they'll have to lower their expectations. Put it to His Lordship, Mr. Barrow."

But Thomas was shaking his head. "Even if I did, I couldn't have one trained up properly for the occasion next week and the one after that."

" _Borrow_ someone for them. But get started with more permanent arrangements. You have a right and a responsibility to do the job properly. And you need make no apologies for doing so."

Carson withdrew, leaving Barrow to ponder that. It frustrated him that he could offer no tangible aid, but there were other kinds of assistance. He had the wisdom of the ages - about service, anyway - and that was still valuable. The butler was operating in unreasonable conditions and His Lordship would have to face up to that.

 **Charlie and Elsie**

Some time later, Charlie and Elsie were having their after-dinner sherry in the sitting room of the cottage. When they had been butler and housekeeper at Downton Abbey this had been their evening ritual - a sherry in the housekeeper's sitting room - and it was the means, formal and yet benignly intimate, that had facilitated the gentle development of love between them. In those 'old days,' they were always talking, reviewing the events of the day, finalizing plans for the next. It was the only time they could have a conversation when they were not likely to be interrupted.

They still talked, of course, but now they also enjoyed companionable silence. This evening, he was reading a book while she tried to figure out a knitting pattern. It had been a long time since she'd knit anything. She was confident that she could work it out eventually, but it was frustrating. This was one of those moments when she wished her mother were alive and nearby, so that she could be turned to for an explanation. Her mother had been a skilled knitter. But she wasn't there and Elsie Carson didn't waste time dwelling on what wasn't. Looking up, she saw her husband's brows furrowed with disapproval over his book and she could not contain a smile.

"What are you reading?"

He didn't look up. "Agatha Christie's latest novel. It came in the post today. _The Big Four_."

"You don't look as though you're enjoying it."

Now his eyes did shift to hers. "I'm not. It's all international intrigue. Thoroughly implausible. And Hastings is an even bigger fool than usual." He sighed and put the book down on the side table, picking up another that lay there. He held it up so she could see it. The cover illustration featured a handsome merle collie. Elsie took this in and met her husband's gaze for a moment, and then the two of them glanced automatically at the big collie who lay sprawled by the grate.

" _Gray Dawn_ ," Charlie said, reading the title. "It's the latest volume by Albert Payson Terhune, that American who writes dog stories about his collies," he explained, responding to her inquiring look. "Lady Hexham sent it down to me today, along with a copy of _The Sketch_ in which my article is _prominently_ featured."

He did look pleased with himself and Elsie laughed. "I suppose I'll have to read it now," she said, teasing him. "To learn how to put on a fancy society dinner."

He only smiled indulgently at her. She teased him a lot. "She's trying to encourage me to write that story about Shep."

The collie rolled over in response to his name.

"I'm not convinced," Charlie went on, "but this book can't be worse than _The Big Four_. And I've got a bigger project underway." His attention focused on the heap of wool in the basket at her feet. "What are you trying to knit, anyway?"

"A sweater. For little Robbie Bates. And _trying_ is the word for it. By the time I get the pattern sorted, he'll be going to school."

Her self-deprecating tone only broadened his smile. "I doubt that." He did like just to look at her sitting here, in their home. "Do you think you'll like this, going half-time?"

She stared into the distance for a moment. "Well, it's not a matter of liking or not, really. The question is, will it work." Her eyes met his. "We're going to give it a serious go, though, Her Ladyship and I. We'll see," she added lightly.

Her eyes settled on the pattern book again and then, with a small sound of vexation, put it aside. "I was thinking we might have Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Mason over for dinner one night. When the family are out so Mrs. Patmore would be free."

"Why?"

She was a little taken aback at his abrupt response and scrambled for a rationalization to cover her ulterior motive. "As a diversion for you."

He stared steadily at her and saw a gleam of mischief in her eye. She didn't fool him and, what's more, she knew it. "I'm not in need of diverting," he said evenly.

"Well, for a change, then," she suggested lightly, maintaining the charade.

"I'm not sitting down to dinner with one of the tenant farmers," he said, somewhat more emphatically.

An exasperated sound escaped her. "You're such a snob, Charlie Carson. It's _Mr. Mason_." She regarded him for a moment, chewing a little on her bottom lip, and then added, "You're not the butler of Downton Abbey any more."

It was a mark of how far he had come in the acceptance of that painful fact that she could say this and that he could blithely ignore it. "Why are you trying to make a match between them?" he asked bluntly.

She gave up on subtlety, too. "I think they're interested."

"I don't. And you shouldn't interfere. If there _is_ something there, you should let it evolve in its own time. They'll be better for it. As we were," he said, and the expression on his face softened. The fact that they were husband and wife never failed to thrill him.

She thought of their relationship as almost magical herself, but that did not deter her with regard to the cook and the farmer. "They've not got thirty years!" she said, laughing. And then went on, more solemnly, "Is it wrong for me to want Mrs. Patmore to be as happy as I am?"

He tossed the book aside and went to her, reaching out for her and drawing her to her feet and into his arms. "No," he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Bu she couldn't be, not until... unless... she feels the same ... passion...," They kissed lightly. "...as we do. Marriage should be a communion of heart and mind and soul, as it is with us." He kissed her again. "And as it was with Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley."

That deflated the moment. She knew he didn't mean to put her off, but she had to shake her head at the pervasive presence of Lady Mary in his mind. And heart. "I notice you didn't say Mr. Talbot," she observed coolly.

"He's a fine man," Charlie said firmly. "And she loves him. But there's nothing quite like your first love is there?" There was an almost dreamy quality to his voice and his eyes had a faraway cast.

Elsie feigned hurt. "Am I to take from that that in your heart I'm second best?" She was teasing him again.

His arms immediately tightened around her and the misty haze of his countenance disappeared under a smouldering gaze. "You know better than that," he said firmly and then kissed her again. They neither of them could get enough of that. They often couched their relationship in terms of their thirty-year acquaintance, even knowing it was a false framework, that their feelings for each other were much more recent than that. But it did sometimes seem that they were playing catch-up in the small intimacies.

He wasn't wrong about the passion between them. If Mrs. Patmore could only know the half of it... "It's only dinner," Elsie said, drawing them back to the subject. "I'm not planning to invite the vicar."

Her dry manner made him laugh. He could not resist her. "Dinner," he said, giving in.

 **END OF EPISODE 2.**

 **Author's Note:** Things begin to get complicated with the next chapter and postings will be frequent, but not every day.


	7. Chapter 7

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **EPISODE 3. Chapter 1.**

 **John and Anna**

"I think it's time."

John and Anna were walking to the Abbey, Robbie alert and twisting in Anna's arms, taking in the trees and flowers and grass and sky around them. He kept distracting his mother. Anna didn't like missing one moment of his development. But John was talking about their future, a future where they might indeed have more time together, and she wanted to hear what he had to say.

"We've had this dream for a long time," he went on, "and...so many things have obliged us to put it on hold."

She wasn't going to disagree with him there. In fact, she wasn't going to disagree with him at all.

"Can we put the house for sale in its present condition?"

Her question caught him off guard. The speech he'd prepared was about persuading her to act. He thought he'd have to bring her around. "Um...yes," he said, scrambling to recover. "It is. I went over it when I was up in London with His Lordship the last time. I even...looked up an agent to handle the sale."

"Good."

"You want to do this then?"

It amused Anna that he thought she was going to put up a fight, so much so that he was reluctant to accept her agreement. "Of course I do," she said, turning an adoring gaze on him. "It's not been only your dream, John Bates."

"Sell the house, buy a hotel, leave Downton." He was frowning at her.

She laughed now at his carefulness. " _Yes_."

"And you won't mind leaving Lady Mary."

"Of course I will. As you'll mind leaving His Lordship. They've done a lot for us." She paused. "As we have for them. But we have our own lives to live, John. And we won't be leaving on Tuesday. They'll have plenty of time to get used to the idea."

"But I thought you'd..."

She was giving him a look and he shifted uncomfortably.

He smiled sheepishly. "I really thought you'd resist more," he admitted.

Anna sighed and, hoisting Robbie onto her other hip, slipped her now free arm through her husband's. "I've loved you since you fell flat on your face in the gravel in front of the Duke of Crowborough, and that was, oh, a hundred years ago, I think." They both laughed at her exaggeration. "And all I've ever wanted since then was to live with you in our own home and raise a family together."

"What about Lady Mary?"

"She'll understand," Anna said confidently. "As will His Lordship. Not that it matters, in practical terms. I want to part with them on good terms, but we don't need anyone's blessing, John."

The expression on his face was one of incredulity. "I'm amazed."

She was almost exasperated, although in a good-natured way. "I _love_ you, John. You and Robbie."

He stopped abruptly and she stopped with him, and for a moment they simply stared, absorbing the love they saw in each other's eyes.

When they reached the Abbey, Anna headed up the stairs to the nursery on the gallery level where she would leave Robbie for the day. John went directly into the servants' hall.

"Mr. Bates."

He turned toward Daisy. She was holding out a small envelope to him.

"This came for you this morning," she said. "By hand."

He took it and opened it and stared at it, perplexed.

"Is it bad news?" Daisy asked. She was clearly concerned by the look on his face.

"I don't know what it is," he answered honestly.

 **Thomas and Baxter**

Thomas swung open the green baize door and strode through it, almost colliding with Miss Baxter, who was coming down from the servants' quarters. They dodged each other, apologized, and then continued downstairs together.

"You've got a smile on your face," she observed. She didn't smile herself, but she was clearly pleased for him.

She had always been so supportive of him and he almost never deserved it. He'd gotten her the job at Downton that he might exploit her as an upstairs spy and then he'd almost gotten her fired again by telling tales about her. But she was forgiving. It was a legacy of their youth, when she had been friends with his older sister and shared, perhaps, a soft spot for the odd boy out that was his lot. She'd stood by him through more than one crisis at Downton, too, and he'd gradually surrendered his suspicions that she was like everyone else. They had become, in a manner of speaking, friends.

He _was_ in a buoyant mood and he didn't mind telling her so. "I took some unwanted but not un-useful advice and had an interview with His Lordship earlier about the staffing requirements of Downton Abbey. I won't bore you with the details, but the upshot is that we are to have some additions to staff, including a new footman." He'd anticipated a struggle with His Lordship, but the man had listened seriously to his concerns, asked questions, and ... yielded. Thomas was elated.

"I'm pleased for you," Miss Baxter said warmly. "Well done."

It wasn't all sunshine though. "Even if I find someone in time for Mr. Talbot's dinner party next week, he won't be properly trained up," Thomas went on cautiously. "But there's mounds of silver to be polished and _anyone_ can do that." He glanced at her and then paused. She was listening to him, but there was a distracted look about her.

"I wish I could say the same for you. That you had a smile on _your_ face," he added.

But she only looked away, prompting him to try to cajole her into good humour by teasing her. "Have you not seen Mr. Molesley this week, then?"

Sometimes he wondered about Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley. It wasn't that he disliked Molesley so much as he despised him. He was so weak, so fragile. Even when he stood up to Thomas, as he had on occasion with regard to Miss Baxter, Thomas knew he could have flattened the man with one hand tied behind his back if he'd been inclined to do so. There was nothing striking or bold about him. He was all pastels. Thomas had never liked Mr. Carson either, but he could respect that man for his strength, intelligence, and self-confidence. You could rely on Mr. Carson. Molesley, on the other hand, looked to collapse if you glared at him.

But Thomas did like Miss Baxter and she liked Molesley, and Thomas had come to accept that. Whatever his shortcomings in general, Molesley had a positive effect on the lady's maid. And if that's what she really wanted then it wasn't Thomas's place to question it. He might have said that the quiet relationship between these two wallflowers was only evidence of that old adage that there was someone for everyone. But Thomas had yet to know the reality of that. His experience had been that there was no one for him.

He'd meant to be amusing, but Baxter's face crumpled at his words. "I've not seen or heard from Mr. Molesley in _three_ weeks," she said fretfully.

Thomas's levity faded entirely and he stopped on the stair and turned to her. What she said surprised him, for Molesley, who had moved out of Downton at New Year's so as to take up teaching full time in the winter term, had found any number of pathetic and transparent excuses to visit Downton of an evening or a weekend for several months past. This had irritated Thomas even more than Molesley's presence had always done. It frustrated him to watch this dance between them unfold so excruciatingly slowly. Even the glacial romance between Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson had proceeded at a steadier pace.

"What's he up to, then?" he asked, his thoughts not yet focused.

"I don't know," she said, sounding wounded. "And it's the holidays."

So it was. Molesley really did have no excuse. "He's only over in the village," Thomas said. "Go see him."

But, of course, she wouldn't. No. Women didn't do that sort of thing. They might be called down for man-chasing. _Rubbish_ , Thomas thought. He admired people who knew what they wanted and went out and got it. Like Lady Mary. She wouldn't have let some archaic convention of behaviour get in her way. He knew for a fact that she wouldn't. But Miss Baxter couldn't be like that.

So Thomas fell back on the usual bromides of comfort that never worked. "He'll be busy with something," he said soothingly. "Maybe his dad's ill. Or they've got some special summer project at the school. You know how conscientious he is. He wouldn't say no." This is what it had come to - he was praising Molesley to calm Miss Baxter.

She nodded, more of an acknowledgment of his effort than an acceptance of his rationalizations. Then she moved off, looking dejected.

Thomas stared after her, sympathetic but exasperated all the same. _Do something about it_! he wanted to bellow after her. _Make something happen!_ But his words would have been wasted. Instead he strolled down the corridor to the butler's pantry, thinking. People like Miss Baxter and Molesley would never get anywhere if left to their own devices. He didn't want to be the one to provide the helping hand, but it seemed he was the _only_ one who could, for of course he had an idea of what to do, reluctant though he was to do it. He didn't like asking anyone for help, but it grated on him in a special way to have to appeal to Joseph Molesley.

 **Robert, Cora, and Tom**

Cora was at her writing desk when Robert came into her sitting room.

"Don't you usually have meetings on Wednesday mornings?" he asked.

"Usually," she said absently. She finished the sentence she was writing and then looked up at him with a smile. "But every once in a while, I get a reprieve."

"Then why," Robert asked, pulling up a chair and sitting close by her side, "are you not spending this lovely morning with me?"

She entwined her hand in the one he stretched out to her. "I thought you had estate things to do. Besides, I'm writing a letter to my mother. She's complained recently that she never hears from me, which is a bit of the pot calling the kettle black. But she is my mother."

"Hmm." Robert glanced out the window in the direction of the village. "I really ought to go visit Mama. She's not been coming to dinner lately."

"What have you been up to?"

Cora's query drew his attention back to her. "Homework," he announced. "I've been reading up a bit on foreign relations. The German question," he intoned.

Cora looked sceptical. "Robert, you're not going to embarrass Henry or his friends with pointed political questions."

"Of course not. They're just going to want to talk about cars anyway. Or champagne," he added doubtfully. "A champagne salesman," he said disdainfully, and then returned to her remark. "This is in preparation for the American ambassador."

"I should think he'd be coming here to get _away_ from that kind of talk."

Robert shrugged. "Maybe. But politicians and diplomats are never free of their work. What I came in to tell you was that I've had a conversation with Barrow about the staff and I've authorized him to hire a second footman. And sometime soon we're going to have to address the question of support in the housekeeping department, what with Mrs. Carson going half time."

"We've been discussing that, Mrs. Carson and I," Cora said, and then frowned a little. "I didn't know you were thinking about a new footman."

"I wasn't," Robert admitted. "Barrow came to me this morning with a well-prepared argument and I couldn't see my way around it. I know we've been cutting back, but when we start lopping off limbs then we might as well give it all up and move to a smaller house."

Cora knew that this was not a possibility Robert would consider, for all his occasional wistful asides about retiring to the Riviera and leaving Downton to Mary.

"We've been operating on a reduced staff for a few months now and I'd thought, foolishly really, that Barrow was managing. He never said anything. But I got the sense this morning that he's been pressed to the limit, not that he said so explicitly. Carson would have been on me about it some time ago. He never hesitated to remind me of the requirements of maintaining standards."

"Barrow isn't as sure of his standing with you," Cora observed adroitly.

"So it seems. But Barrow's been here for so long, I just assumed he would be. We've never known him to hold back when it came to fighting his own corner."

"It's different now that he's the butler," Cora said. "And he's still finding his own way, even if he _looks_ supremely confident all the time." She was sympathetic. She'd had her ups and downs with Barrow, but she believed in giving every employee the tools to do the best job they could.

"Well, I've learned that now," Robert said. "We'll have to talk more often, I suppose. Carson just _knew_ everything."

"Carson," Cora reminded him, "was the butler here before you were the Earl of Grantham. He _did_ know everything. And he was ... is... more than an employee to you."

A knock at the door interrupted them and they were both surprised when Tom came in.

Robert made a show of looking at his watch. "What are you doing here at this hour of the day?" he demanded, feigning shock. "Don't shops have regular hours?"

Tom shrugged good-naturedly. "They do. Fortunately I have a reliable partner." He approached them. "Barrow said I'd find you in here."

Cora and Robert exchanged glances. They had seen Tom at breakfast and he had said nothing of wanting to talk to them. Robert gestured to a chair and Tom drew one up.

"Is something the matter?" Cora asked, not entirely able to suppress her concern.

"No," Tom said brightly and a bit too heartily. There was no hiding the fact that he was not completely comfortable. "It's only I've been spending more time with Sybbie recently and ... it's got me thinking about...my future, _our_ future. Going to Boston was not right for us. Opening a shop with Henry was. I know we'll make a go of it." He paused and his gaze shifted between them.

"The thing is," he went on, "I've made some decisions. And it's time for me to tell you about them."

 **Thomas and Molesley**

Thomas went off to the village in mid-afternoon when there was a bit of a lull. He went to Molesley's cottage first - a cottage was one of the benefits that went with a teaching position at the school - but found no one at home. Undeterred, Thomas headed next to the residence of the elder Molesley, certain of finding his quarry there. He knew where Mr. Molesley lived, of course, because Downton was a village. Everyone knew everyone.

As he came abreast of the cottage row, he saw them - father and son - out front. They were constructing a rose trellis on the bit of wall beside the front door. Thomas was not interested in roses, although he understood William Molesley to be an accomplished cultivator of some of the most stunning specimens in Yorkshire. Nor was he particularly interested in the Molesleys, apart from his specific agenda. But he lingered a moment nonetheless, before they saw him, just watching them together.

They were a companionable pair, William Molesley and his son Joseph. Thomas had heard enough about this in the Downton servants' hall over the years. It was always "m'Dad this," and "m'Dad that," from Molesley. Mrs. Molesley had died when her son was a boy, leaving father and son to shift for themselves and they had grown even closer than they ever had been as a result. Joseph had not followed his father into outside work on the estates, but gone instead into domestic service, training to be a valet and butler, although misfortune had conspired to reduce him to lowly footman these past few years. But the father's support had been steadfast, always accepting and even indulgent of his son. Though they were hardly well-off, Molesley's dad had given him a set of _Oxford Histories_ of the world for his birthday one year. It was hardly a practical gift, but it was appropriate and kind. _The sort of thing a dad did_.

 _That's a dad_ , Thomas mused, watching the two of them fitting the trellis together. They worked together easily. And the way they moved with and around each other suggested an affection that did not require words. How it differed from Thomas's relationship with his own dad! Oh, he'd learned some of the fundamentals of clock-making, and he'd been a good student of the trade, too. But there was never that camaraderie there, that sense of _acceptance._ Both knew that it was better all around when Thomas chose to enter service.

Thomas shook his head. _Blimey!_ Was he jealous of _Molesley_ now? That was a level of self-pity to which he would not allow himself to descend. Instead he strode boldly to their gate and called out to them in greeting.

They were both startled. Molesley senior nodded to him, an acknowledgment of Thomas's superior social status as the butler of Downton Abbey. The son was less deferential and a little reserved, though polite, because Molesley was always polite.

"Mr. Barrow!"

Thomas watched him keenly. Molesley was surprised, of course, but was there also a little current of unease there? They had been a little bit of an awkward triangle at Downton, Thomas, Molesley, and Miss Baxter. Molesley could at least imagine, although it was unlikely, that Thomas was here on her behalf.

The old man excused himself and went into the cottage, understanding that Downton's butler had come to speak to his son and giving them privacy to do so as a matter of course.

"How are you, Mr. Molesley?" Thomas asked. When necessary, he could be charming and pleasant, although he'd never seen the need to show this side of himself to Molesley before.

"Ah...I'm ... well, Mr. Barrow. How are ... things... with you?"

Thomas smiled. "Very well. Very busy, of course." He paused, both because keeping Molesley off guard suited his purposes and because he really was reluctant to ask favours of anyone. "I'm very sorry to trouble you," he began, "but you did offer, so many months ago, to assist at Downton, should the need arise, and I've come to ask if you would still consider it."

"Oh!" Molesley was taken aback, flustered but also possibly relieved. "Oh, well!"

"I understand you're on holidays at the moment," Thomas went on smoothly. "And, the thing is, we're expecting two parties at Downton in the next few weeks and I've got only one footman. Andy is a capable fellow, of course, but it's just not enough. And I can't have maids in the dining room."

"No! No, of course not!"

In truth, Thomas was indifferent to the prospect of maids in the dining room, the very suggestion of which had been enough almost to stop Mr. Carson's heart. Having to accept that very situation during the war had struck him down briefly with stress. Thomas adhered to the tradition in practice because he had not yet _had_ to abandon it, not out of some principled commitment. But Molesley, like Mr. Carson, was old school.

"I've come, Mr. Molesley," Thomas said, folding his hands before him and affecting a facade of humility that was wholly insincere, "to ask if you would help me out. I need an experienced footman, a man with a bit about him, who knows what he's doing."

Molesley stood as though frozen in place, not quite sure what to make of this offer. Perhaps he discerned the hollowness of Thomas's compliments. Or perhaps he was contemplating how this would make contact with Miss Baxter unavoidable. His hesitation told Thomas that he would have to play his best cards.

He took a step closer to Molesley so as to affect a degree of discretion. He also lowered his voice. "The fact is, Mr. Molesley, Downton is to host some _very_ important guests in the near future. There is a party of German businessmen coming," - this was a slight exaggeration, but there was no harm in it, " _and_ , shortly after that, there is to be a weekend with the _American ambassador_."

As with Mr. Carson, Thomas was breaching the confidentiality of the house in imparting this information, but he felt that here, too, the brotherhood of butlers would assure Molesley's circumspection. More to the point, he thought the teacher more likely to cooperate if he knew these details.

"It's an _historic_ opportunity," Thomas said emphatically, appealing to Molesley's Achilles' heel. "Who knows what critical decisions of European peace may be brokered at Downton!" Thomas cared very little about politics and international affairs, but he collected information on anything as a matter of course. One never knew when a detail might come in useful.

"Oh! Well! That's ... that's very exciting!" Molesley said breathlessly, and his eyes were wide with appreciation for the potential of these occasions.

"You wouldn't want Downton to offer such distinguished guests, _especially_ the Ambassador, anything less than the highest calibre of service," Thomas said, pressing the case.

Molesley stared at Thomas. "And you want _me_ there?"

His scepticism was well grounded. Thomas had to try harder. "Mr. Molesley," he said gravely, "I _need_ you."

On his way back to the Abbey, several moments later, Thomas had an urge to shake himself, in the manner of a dog after a bath. _Well, that was distasteful_ , he said to himself. Distasteful, but successful. And worth it for Miss Baxter's sake. She and Molesley could hardly help seeing each other within the limited confines of the Abbey, and once brought together, they would at least have the opportunity to sort out this trouble between them.

It occurred to him, as he approached the servants' entrance, that he was now playing matchmaker, a role he considered more than odious. And it irritated him because he knew it was a part no one would ever undertake on his behalf. "Always on the outside," he muttered.

 **Bates and the Dowager**

Bates had been to the Dower House once in all his years at Downton and that had been his own initiative. Prompted by Anna's concern for a down-and-out Molesley, Bates had approached the Dowager for money to help get the man back on his feet. It had been a bold move on Bates's part, but though he'd had no direct interaction with the Crawley matriarch in the course of his work, he thought he'd taken the measure of her character through what he'd heard about her. And he was right. She had given him thirty pounds and he had arranged for it to come to Molesley without diminishing that kind man's dignity. Bates and the Dowager had never spoken of it. Indeed they had not spoken at all since that exchange.

This time he came at her summoning and he could not imagine the reason why. Nor did he waste any mental energy trying to do so. He would know when she told him.

The door was opened by Mr. Spratt. Bates had had almost as little to do with the Dowager's butler as with the Dowager herself, though no doubt Spratt knew a great deal about Bates, the result of public notoriety. What Bates knew about Spratt came from servants' hall gossip, and the valet was never much one for that. Others were fascinated by the rumour that Spratt was responsible for the "agony aunt" column in Lady Hexham's magazine, but Bates was not interested either way. There was enough silliness in the world without wasting one's leisure time absorbing more of it.

"What do you want?"

This surly welcome made no impression on Bates, though it occurred to him that Mr. Carson would never have greeted anyone like this. Even Mr. Barrow would have disdained such an opening, if only from the conviction that cold politeness was ever more effective than explicit rudeness. Bates did not rise to it, in any case.

"I have an appointment with Her Ladyship," he said and, when Spratt raised a sceptical brow, Bates drew out the note requesting his presence and showed it to him. At the sight of the familiar writing, Spratt desisted and, without another objection - or another word - he led Bates to the Dowager's sitting room.

"Ah, Bates! Do come in."

Her Ladyship's warm tones dispelled the last of Spratt's doubts. He withdrew in silence and closed the door behind him.

"Thank you for coming, Bates."

He acknowledged her words with a nod.

"Please," she said. "Sit down."

Bates was reticent by nature so he gave away nothing of the great surprise he felt at this direction. He had never sat in the presence of the Crawleys

Perhaps she read his thoughts. "It is all very unusual, Bates. We have scarce exchanged a word in all your time at Downton and yet here you are."

Although it was unprecedented that he should join Her Ladyship in this way, Bates was not at all ill at ease as Mr. Carson would have been in his place. He accepted that this was the way the Dowager wished to play it and he had no objections to her doing so. "I am...curious, my lady," he said, as he took his seat.

"Of course you are," she said in a matter-of-fact way. "Well, I will be frank with you, Bates, both because it is in my nature to be so and because it will save us both time. I've asked you here today because it has been my observation over years of living at Downton, that you are the only one about the place who can keep a secret."

She made that announcement bluntly and then let it lie for a moment.

Bates said nothing.

The Dowager smiled. "Precisely."

Now Bates did smile, just a little. "You may rely on my discretion, my lady."

"Good." She stamped on the floor with her cane to emphasize her satisfaction, and then said, "I am going to die."

That did shock him. His eyes widened a little and the lightness with which their interview had unfolded thus far entirely dissipated.

"Well, we are all going to die," she amended, maintaining a casual tone, "but I am in the process of dying in the near future. Dr. Clarkson, who is the only other person who knows of this, has told me that I have six months." She spoke dispassionately and stared steadily at him as she spoke.

Bates was not unmoved. "I'm very sorry to hear this, my lady," he said soberly, keeping his eyes on her.

"Thank you," she said formally. "Thank you for not denying, dismissing, or bemoaning the fact. I am old. This is what happens. I do not want anyone else to know this, Bates. Not yet, at least. I may or may not tell them. But if I do, it will be in my own good time."

He nodded. "I understand."

"But this is not the secret - the main secret - that I wish to confide in you. It is only the necessary foundation to the confidence ... and the commission...that I wish to convey to you. Do I ask too much?"

Although he was capable of subterfuge and deception, and, at the very least, disingenuousness, there were persons and moments that demanded scrupulous honesty from him and this was one of them. "I cannot say without reservation until I know what you would ask, my lady, but if it is within my power, then I am at your service."

She smiled again, clearly satisfied with her choice of him. Again she paused. She had made up her mind else he would not be here, but she clearly wanted to impart something momentous and that required an effort.

"Many years ago there was a period of ... coolness...in my marriage to Lord Grantham. In that fractured moment there were ... indiscretions. And consequences." She stared meaningfully at him.

He nodded again to encourage her to go on.

She explained at some length, and then added, "There was a reconciliation, you understand, and we went forward and were, I may say, quite as happy as anyone generally is. But there was a lingering sense of responsibility and we came to an understanding about that, too. It was our decision that we would do nothing in our lifetimes. That may sound cruel, but we had our own lives, our own family to consider, and that was what we chose to do."

She paused to give him an opportunity to react, but John Bates remained stoic. He had nothing to say. He did not judge other people.

"There is a letter. And some money. And it was our determination that these should be delivered to the appropriate person at the death of the one of us who survived the other. The difficulty is, Bates, that we know very little, not having ... kept track ... as it were. Your first challenge, then, will be to find this person, the second to deliver the letter and the money into those hands. Do you think you could do this for me?"

She had related the narrative in a firm voice, showing no signs of remorse or regret, or any other emotion. But she betrayed herself with the question. This was a delicate matter and it had clearly been weighing on the consciences of the Granthams for half a century. This formidable woman was, for once, a fragile human being, just like everyone else.

"Is there any information to go on?" Bates inquired.

Despite her preoccupation, she almost smiled. "A practical consideration," she said. "Yes, I have some documents that may assist you in the search."

Bates remained thoughtful. She had asked an honest question. If he declined the charge, he felt sure that she would accept his decision without recrimination. But no pressing reason offered for him to do so. "Yes, my lady, I can execute this commission for you," he said, in tones that echoed the formality with which she had spoken to him.

His words relieved her, but he would not be anything but frank with her and so continued.

"I would, however, caution you. Anyone receiving such an ... inheritance, for lack of a better word... would be curious, no matter how discreetly conveyed. It may lead to trouble."

His concern pleased her, he could see that. She appreciated his advice.

"The letter is unsigned. But I take your point. The pact, however, was a solemn one and we both committed to it at the time. Lord Grantham said nothing to contradict this as he was dying, and there was time, then, for him to do so. Nor have I changed my mind. I trust you to be as discreet as possible and if the story outs ..well, then perhaps that is the way of secrets. So you will undertake the task?" she asked again.

"I will," Bates said solemnly.

"And _I_ will compensate you for your efforts on my behalf," she added.

At these words, Bates stiffened. " _That_ I could not accept, my lady. The Crawleys have stood by me in troubled times, the worst times of my life. It will be a privilege and an honour to carry out this obligation for you."

For a moment, he thought he saw a glistening in her eye, a reaction to his sincerity and gratitude. But she was a master of self-control and her poise returned in an instant. "You are a man of honour, Bates. Thank you."

She got up and moved slowly to her desk. From the locked central drawer she withdrew an envelope that she then held out to him. He got up to take it from her. They stood there, the two of them, leaning on their canes.

"I would appreciate a report on your progress, Bates. When you have located ... well, when you have completed the first part of this commission, I will give you the letter and the means to access the funds." She hesitated and then raised her steely gaze to his. "In the event that death catches me unawares, there will be an envelope at my solicitor's with your name on it. Do not let my passing deter you from this work. It is a matter of deep personal honour that it be completed."

"I understand," he said, attempting to communicate to her by the look in his eye and the solemnity of his speech that he considered this a sacred trust. He took the envelope and put it in his inner pocket. Watching her make her way, very carefully, back to her chair, Bates realized that the interview was over. And yet he lingered.

"Mr. Carson would have done as much for you, my lady," he said. He had observed for years how the Dowager and the former butler interacted with one another. There was an intimacy between them, fostered by the longevity of their acquaintance and a deeply emotional shared investment in Downton.

She paused, her gaze fixed on some intangible point across the room. "Yes," she drawled. "He would keep my secrets, in word at least. But Carson wears his heart on his sleeve and that would have defeated the purpose. And he has long admired and respected Lord Grantham and myself. It would be a blow to him." Her eyes shifted abruptly to Bates. "Carson will learn the story, in his own time, and then he will have to make his own decision."


	8. Chapter 8

**DOWNTON ABBEY**

 **EPISODE 3. Chapter 2.** *

 **Mary and Tom**

Tom and Mary met on the gallery and came down the stairs together.

"Henry is very excited to see his friend again," Mary said.

"I know. _I'm_ excited to meet his friend." Tom was grinning.

Mary rolled her eyes at him. "You and your cars."

But Tom wasn't going to take that lying down. "It's my business, Mary. And I'm as passionate about cars as you are about Downton."

"I doubt it." They smiled at each other.

"You don't look very keen on this dinner party," he noted.

She shrugged. "It's the German part I don't like," she said, adding darkly, "Germans at Downton."

"The war is over," Tom said emphatically, evidently with little patience for her views on this. "It's been almost eight years."

"Yes, I've noticed the Irish have short memories for transgressions and are very forgiving," Mary said sarcastically.

He ignored this dig. "And Germany's paid for it, Mary."

"Not really," she countered. "Certainly not financially. Isn't that what all these _plans_ are for? To refinance the German economy so they can pay their war debts?"

Tom snorted. "Reparations, not debt. It's a bit rich of England and France making Germany pay for a war they all had a hand in making."

"They lost, Tom. And they _did_ start it. They invaded Belgium."

It was an argument destined to go nowhere, a fact that Tom recognized.

"I think that's a matter best forgotten."

"Spoken," Mary said acidly, "like someone who didn't fight."

There were men who were ashamed that they had not served their country during the war. But England wasn't Tom's country, and he'd been glad to stay out of it, so Mary's critical tone washed over him without effect. He chose not to mention the heart murmur that had disqualified him even from conscription, because it had thwarted his own plans to reject service anyway. "Neither did you," he said impudently.

"No," Mary said evenly. "But Matthew did. And Henry. And _I_ don't forgive _or_ forget."

 **The Guests Arrive**

It was the first time that Henry Talbot had invited friends of his own to Downton. There had been guests before, but they were there at the invitation of the Talbots - Henry and Mary together. The men arriving this afternoon, however, were distinctly from his world.

Thomas wanted everything to be right, not so much for Mr. Talbot specifically, as for Downton. It must always be seen at its best. It was odd how that sensibility had come upon him. He'd felt a measure of pride in Downton before, but in a limited way. In the past it was Mr. Carson's show and he had absorbed the greater share of responsibility and glory. As the butler of Downton Abbey, Thomas felt both of these now, and the responsibility, he had to admit, was no small thing.

He and the footmen, all in their impeccable liveries, stood to the left of the door, unobtrusive and yet adding to the ceremony of the occasion. As they waited for the car to arrive from the station, Thomas appraised his staff out of the corner of his eye. He was grateful for Molesley's willingness to serve. The man had been a little uncomfortable in the servants' hall earlier, but that was no doubt because of the proximity of Miss Baxter. Well, they could sort that out later. Then there was Andy. Thomas was fond of Andy. He was a good lad.

But ... the picture wasn't perfect. Footmen served a number of purposes and did a lot of hard work, but they were meant to be ornamental, too. They ought to look good. And neither of his footmen really met that standard. They might be good workers and pleasant people, but they weren't visually compelling. Thomas had not yet had any luck in hiring a new man, but he was determined that the new footman, in addition to being capable and efficient, must also be good-looking.

The car pulled up and the footmen rushed forward to open the doors. Mr. Talbot also stepped forward. His friend was the first out of the car and Mr. Talbot seized his hand and shook it vigorously, and then embraced him. One of the attractions of the Germans, that set them apart from the French and several other continental peoples, was that even the warmest of welcomes did not involve men kissing. This was a habit the British had never embraced.

Thomas's attention pivoted between the footmen, who were unloading the cases from the car, assisted by a man Thomas took to be somebody's valet - he could see him only from behind - and the family and their guests.

Mr. Talbot's friend, Reinhard Morden, struck Thomas as a German equivalent of Robert Crawley, though much younger. His manner was that of a man who had an innate self-confidence, fueled by a deep-seated awareness of his place in the world and of his social superiority. It sat easily on him and let him to conduct himself with a quiet humility. In a man of lower status and lesser confidence this would have manifested itself in arrogance. It was an intangible nobility of spirit and it was just as well that Herr Morden had it, Thomas thought, because he wasn't much to look at. Standing next to him, handsome Mr. Talbot was a striking contrast.

The other man was even less prepossessing and had the mark of someone who affected the manner of a gentleman, but couldn't quite carry it off. Thomas had seen any number of these over the years and he recognized the type instantly.

Herr Morden brought his associate forward.

"Permit me to present Herr Joachim von Ribbentrop," he said, and the family duly shook hands and murmured the appropriate words of welcome. ******

 _Von_. That was a marker of German nobility. But Thomas had been in the dining room when Mr. Talbot had described the unknown visitor, apologetically, as a champagne salesman. _How the mighty fall_ , Thomas thought. The Crawley hospitality extended in his direction was politely formal but not warm, and for good reason.

Thomas glanced once more toward the footmen and saw them already bundling the cases off toward the servants' entrance. The valet, or whatever he was, was with them and Thomas saw only his back. Then he moved to hold the door for the family and their guests. He would see them ensconced in the library and set up for tea, and then leave them to Molesley, while he withdrew to finalize preparations in the dining room with Andy, and then descended to the butler's pantry to organize the wines. He had taken particular care over the wines this evening. The champagne salesman might be expected to know more than most about such things, and Thomas was determined that he would not be disappointed.

 **Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, Thomas, and the Valet**

In the kitchen, the novelty of having Germans for dinner was a matter of some discussion.

"We might have tried something adventurous," Daisy was saying. "Something foreign."

"There's nothing wrong with good English food," Mrs. Patmore snapped back. "In fact, they'll probably welcome the change from those heavy sausages and dumplings and the like."

Daisy was puzzled. " _We_ eat dumplings. And sausages."

Mrs. Patmore gave her a patronizing look. "It's not the same thing."

"I'm sure Alfred would have experimented a little," Daisy muttered, but not quietly enough.

"Well _Alfred_ doesn't work here anymore, does he? He's gone to London and been all corrupted by French _chefs_!"

But Mrs. Patmore's scorn had fallen on deaf ears. Daisy was no longer listening to her. And the resigned look on Daisy's face prompted by the cook's culinary patriotism was gone, replaced by an expression of pure astonishment.

Irritably Mrs. Patmore glanced over her shoulder to see what had distracted Daisy and suddenly all the muscles in her own body went weak. Was this what it was like to swoon? And then she was, like Daisy, gaping in helpless wonderment at the man standing in the kitchen doorway.

He was the most beautiful man either woman had ever set eyes upon. Oh, he was golden blond, with glittering blue eyes framed by long, delicate eyelashes, and complemented by a long (but not too long) nose and artfully sculpted jaw, all against the backdrop of a perfect complexion. But these were only attractive parts of a flawless whole. He was dressed in formal black tails with an elaborate shirt that was blindingly white, his trousers creased to within an inch of their lives, his shoes a polished brilliance. He stood perfectly straight and perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the two women.

Mrs. Patmore found her voice, although it was a pale imitation of her usual strident tones. "My ...er...um,...sir," she said breathlessly, "I think you've taken a wrong turn. You ought to be upstairs, in the library."

His response was unexpected. To the further shock of both women, the gravity of his manner gave way, his face crinkling not unattractively with mirth, and he giggled.

Mrs. Patmore and Daisy exchanged apprehensive glances. Was the man unwell? Was he perhaps unhinged? They had no idea. Neither had ever encountered a German before.

He was oblivious to their trepidation. Advancing into the room, he stopped on the other side of the trestle table and lifted his chin into the air, sniffing delicately.

" _Meine lieben Damen._ That is the most exquisite aroma I have _ever_ breathed." ******* His voice was rich, his words clipped in a manner that Mrs. Patmore at least had expected of a German speaking English, and yet rolling off his tongue almost musically. He inhaled deeply once more and his gaze, which was uncomfortably mesmerizing, fell on Mrs. Patmore. "And you, you must be the magician who has wrought this marvel. Yes?" He sighed, as if overcome once more. "It came to me on the stair and I could not rest until I had traced it to its source."

Mrs. Patmore was ambivalent. She had never heard either herself or her cooking described in like terms. They ought to have made a positive impression on her, but such effusiveness was distinctly foreign and she had not completely lost her sense of self. "It'll be on the table before you in no time, my ..., that is, ... baron, lord, er..." She stopped floundering when he held up a hand.

"You mistake me..." He raised a questioning brow.

"Mrs. Patmore," Daisy supplied, discovering to her surprise that she could still formulate words. "And I'm Daisy Mason, the assistant cook."

He promptly executed a short bow. "Ladies. I am not lord or baron anything. My name is Erich Miller and I am valet to Herr Morden. _He_ was once a Count, but alas! the world has changed."

"Yes," Mrs. Patmore murmured, frowning thoughtfully at him. "We've noticed."

Before they could say more, Thomas strode in, talking even before they could see him, impatience in his voice.

"Tea is underway in the library, so why are you..." His gaze had fallen on the stranger and he fell silent, as dumbstruck by the man before him as Mrs. Patmore and Daisy had been. The valet, an impudent smile on his face, only stared at Thomas, clearly aware of the effect his presence had on all those around him. Thomas made a more rapid recovery than the cooks had done.

"I ... I beg your pardon. I heard a man's voice and ... assumed, wrongly, that it was one of my footmen." He caught himself gawking and by an almost physical effort resumed a more conventional dispassionate manner. He glanced at the women.

"I looked in at the library on the way down. The tea is very nicely done, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy."

On its own, Thomas's remark might have shocked the cooks, for he rarely issued compliments, but they were still transfixed by their visitor.

"And you are...?" Thomas asked of the stranger.

The blond man grinned mischievously at Daisy and Mrs. Patmore and then stepped gracefully in Thomas's direction. "Erich Miller," he said again, and repeated his short formal bow.

"He's the German gentleman's valet," Daisy said helpfully.

"Herr Morden is my employer," the man clarified.

And still Thomas remained unmoving, as though in shock. Later Daisy would liken it to the way Mr. Carson looked upon seeing Black band leader, Jack Ross, in the Downton servants' hall.

"Oh." Thomas could not think of anything else to say. And then he did. "I am Mr. Barrow, the butler at Downton Abbey. May I help you with something, Mr. Miller? Is there anything amiss in Herr Morden's room?"

For one long, uncomfortable moment for all the Downton staff members, Erich Miller did not reply. Instead he studied Thomas closely, in a manner that might have unnerved most people and did not sit well with Thomas either.

"Well," Miller said at last, "I thought perhaps I might be of assistance to you, Mr. Barrow."

This made the situation only more curious. "In what way?" Thomas asked cautiously.

Miller cast a sidelong glance at the women and then leaned toward Thomas in a conspiratorial way, though he did not lower his voice when he spoke.

"It's about your footmen, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas was bewildered. "What about them?"

"They're not very pretty, are they?"

Daisy gasped. Mrs. Patmore made a sound that encompassed both astonishment and outrage. Thomas stared in disbelief.

"I beg your pardon?"

The valet straightened once more. "I've come to offer my services, Mr. Barrow. As a footman. I assure you," he added, with a charming smile, "I'm very experienced." And then he winked.

 **Upstairs Dinner**

Over tea, Henry and Reinhard Morden had regaled the family with tales of their pre-war friendship and adventures at Oxford.

As they dispersed to dress for dinner, Cora caught up with Mary. "Herr Morden is quite charming," she said.

Perhaps a little grudgingly, Mary was obliged to agree. Certainly she could not deny the impact that his friend's presence had had on Henry. She had not seen him so animated in conversation with another man, even Tom, since before Charlie Rogers' tragic death. It was a pleasant thing to see Henry in such good form.

It was an intimate dinner party, with only the Crawleys and their guests present. The two Germans sat on either side of Cora, Henry and Mary at the ends, and Tom between Henry and Robert. This put the three car men together and it was clear to the others that they were eager to "talk shop."

"Goodness!" Cora said vivaciously, addressing Herr von Ribbentrop, who sat between her and Mary. "We're not accustomed to a table dominated by men!"

"I have ... had ... three daughters," Robert added, by way of explanation. He stumbled over the verb tense, still not sure, even years later, how to acknowledge Sybil's life and death. Cora smiled gently at him and he recovered, finding a distraction in the flurry of liveried servants about them. "We appear to have more footmen than family tonight," he observed, glancing at the stunning stranger who stood between Molesley and Andrew. "Is this our new man, Barrow?"

"No, my lord," Thomas said swiftly. "Mr. Miller ... Erich ... is Herr Morden's valet. He ... offered his services." It was an offer impossible to resist, for a number of reasons.

"Erich is very helpful," Reinhard Morden interjected mildly.

If Robert found this odd, he let it go.

Mary was less inclined to play the perfect hostess.

"I understand you're a champagne salesman, Mr. Von Ribbentrop." She might be favourably impressed with Henry's friend, but the additional guest was a different matter. She had never liked people who used their friends to secure invitations to posh places. Henry had been such an interloper at Brancaster Castle, but Mary had found it possible to forgive him. He had charms enough to smooth over any imposition. She doubted this unappealing man would have similar success. Mary ignored her mother's critical look and kept her eyes firmly on the man beside her.

He did not appear to take offense. "Ah!" he said with a little laugh and then a glance down the table to Henry's friend. "Reinhard has misled you, I think. I was once a ... marketing representative ... for a wine firm, but that was long ago. I have since made a most advantageous marriage and now occupy a more congenial sphere, one in keeping with my family's illustrious past."

"Really." Mary continued to ignore the pointed looks she was getting from Cora who understood, even if Joachim von Ribbentrop did not, that Mary was not in the least impressed.

But perhaps he sensed something of this. 'My family," he said boldly, "may be traced to the household of Friedrich der Grosse. Frederick the Great," he added sanctimoniously.

Mary shrugged. "I was never one for history," she said, in a bored tone.

Robert had been serving himself from the platter proffered to him by the handsome valet. It was difficult _not_ to be distracted by the man. He was ridiculously good-looking. As he moved on to Tom, Robert found himself questioning the evidence of his own eyes. He waited until the valet had reached Herr Morden on the other side of the table and then leaned almost imperceptibly toward Tom.

"Is he wearing make-up?" he breathed, so only Tom could hear.

Tom hadn't paid much attention to the server, caught up as he was in the conversation between Henry and Reinhard about Britain's rubber monopoly and the damaging impact this had on the German automobile industry. But Robert's words riveted his attention and he glanced surreptitiously across the room at the elegant man now serving Cora.

"He is."

They were both taken aback. It was something neither had encountered before. Tom grinned a little and absorbed himself once more in Henry's disquisition on Britain's rubber plantations in southeast Asia.

"Have you visited England before, Herr von Ribbentrop?" Cora asked, determined to chart a more polite course than Mary had inaugurated. Unlike her daughter, Cora used the German form of address.

"Many times," the man said eagerly. "I love England. This country and my own are natural friends, natural allies. United, British naval power and German industrial and military might could rule the world."

Mary smiled one of those smiles that had no warmth in it. "Britain already rules the world, Mr. von Ribbentrop."

"You are a powerful nation, yes, but a small one," he said bluntly. "You may one day need help to offset the rising challenge from America, or the Communist colossus in the east."

The shift to politics intruded on the conversation at the end of the table and drew Reinhard Morden's attention.

"We have been gratified by the feelings we've encountered in this country against the Treaty of Versailles. Our nation has suffered grievously under it."

Robert murmured supportively and Henry nodded vigorously.

"The war was terrible," Henry said gravely. "Naturally, emotions ran high at the peace."

"Especially French emotions," Reinhard quipped, and all the men laughed.

"We have borne a great burden under that treaty," von Ribbentrop added soberly.

Robert was sympathetic. "Many people agree. Hence the Dawes Plan. And other initiatives to alleviate the hardships."

"As an American, I think everyone should just pay their debts," Cora said softly.

"I agree with you, Lady Grantham," Reinhard Morden said forcefully. "Legitimate debts, yes. Britain contracted for war loans in good faith with the United States, and such debts ought to be honoured. But German debts emanate from the criminal _war guilt_ clause and the reparations imposed on our nation."

"War guilt," Tom said, scoffing. "It was a war of imperialist powers for control of more of the world's resources. All are to blame."

"I wouldn't go that far," Robert said reasonably, "although I admit the terms of the Treaty were harsh."

Mary was looking from one to another impatiently. "What was unfair? The allies won. Germany lost. Bad things happen to losers."

"We didn't lose," von Ribbentrop announced and an uneasy silence fell on the table, with even the footmen and butler freezing in position. "We were betrayed," he added. "We should never have signed the armistice. It was the work of the November criminals."

"The... what?" Cora was not the only one who was bewildered.

"The German Army was unbeaten in the field," von Ribbentrop went on recklessly, oblivious to the shocked faces around him. Only Reinhard Morden was unmoved by this startling declaration. Instead, he nodded in quiet agreement. "The collapse in 1918 came about because of betrayal on the home front. We were stabbed in the back by Communists and financiers, Bolsheviks who overthrew the Kaiser and sold out the patriotic men who were at the front, fighting for the honour of Germany. The men who signed the armistice terms, and then the Treaty of Versailles, were nothing more than political criminals. And that is the government of Weimar." His condemnation of the German government was imbued with contempt.

The conversation had veered alarmingly in a disagreeable direction. For all their sympathy with the tumultuous situation in post-war Germany that had wrought havoc with economies and societies across Europe, and sharing the sentiment against the punitive terms of the Treaty of Versailles, neither Robert nor Henry were prepared to admit this interpretation of the war on the western front. Even Tom looked askance at this. Mary wore a fierce expression of "I told you so," and Cora, the consummate manager of social interaction, was stumped. Von Ribbentrop blundered on.

"You are spared here. We are face to face with the Communist hordes of _Soviet_ Russia. Every day there is fighting in the streets of Berlin, and other German cities, while the nonentities of Weimar do nothing. Fortunately there are nationalist forces who keep them at bay." ********

"Do you mean people like the National Socialists?" Robert's voice was suddenly brittle.

"Yes. Thank God for the National Socialists!" Ribbentrop said passionately.

It was as though an arctic blast had permeated the dining room. The Crawleys and their servants were rigid with suppressed anger. Even Reinhard Morden and his valet had sensed it and, over the heads of the family, their eyes met in acknowledgment of this, though neither moved to arrest their countryman's outburst.

"The National Socialists murdered my sister's fiancé," Mary said coldly. "It was during the Beer Hall Putsch, three years ago."

Von Ribbentrop looked at her, hearing her words but failing to grasp anything of the emotional intensity behind her carefully controlled words.

"Was he Jewish?" he asked.

 ***Author's Note 1:** The Downton characters write themselves. But original characters and characters based on historical figures are a bit of an agony, hence the delay in posting this chapter. And those multi-character scenes are also a challenge. I have a much greater appreciation for the art of those dinner scenes on _Downton Abbey_.

 **** Author's Note 2:** Joachim von Ribbentrop is an historical figure. He was a champagne salesman, among many other things, and travelled and worked before the First World War in Canada, the United States, and Britain. He fought for Germany on both the Eastern and Western Fronts during the War, and afterwards _did_ make an advantageous marriage that took him to a more comfortable social level. He became enamoured with the National Socialists (Nazis) in the late 1920s and was closely associated with Hitler from the early 1930s. He served as Germany's Ambassador to Britain and, from 1938, as the Foreign Minister of Nazi Germany. Even a lot of Nazis didn't like him. He flattered Hitler constantly and impressed everyone else as a dim bulb. He was the first of those accused of war crimes at the major trials in Nuremburg to be executed.

 ***** Author's Note 3:** It's been a long time since I studied German. Thanks to a guest reviewer for the correction here.

 ****** Author's Note 4:** von Ribbentrop is exaggerating somewhat about the street violence in German cities, at this point at least. It was very turbulent in the early 1920s, when inflation was off the charts and there _was_ a lot of political upheaval. It was in this context that Hitler's "Beer Hall Putsch" of 1923 too place. It cools off in the mid-1920s, so it would be quieter in 1926, and then erupts again with the collapse of the Western economies and the onset of the Great Depression at the end of the 1920s and into the 1930s, thus setting the stage for Hitler's rise to power.

The "Dolchstoss Legend" (there may be an "e" on the first word) or "stab in the back" is an historical reality, encompassing a reaction, particularly with the German military and around the person of General Erich von Ludendorff who was in a position to know better, than Germany's military forces were not properly beaten in the field but collapsed because of betrayal on the home front. There was a real threat from the Communists in Germany in the immediate post-war era, but there is another undercurrent here, suggested by von Ribbentrop when he refers also to the "financiers," a euphemism for Jewish bankers.

The connection of the von Ribbentrop family to the household of Frederick the Great is my putting words into von Ribbentrop's mouth. But it wouldn't be out of place for him.


	9. Chapter 9

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.**

 **EPISODE 3. Chapter 3.**

 **Downstairs Gossip**

Downstairs was all abuzz with the footmen's accounts of what had happened at dinner. It was a small but enjoyable perquisite of being a footman that one was privy to upstairs "scenes." There had been some memorable ones in the Crawley dining room, but for the most part these were few and far between. Spats between Lady Mary and Lady Edith - the ordinary fare - were hardly fuel for a bonfire of gossip. Hence the satisfaction with which Andrew and Molesley, the latter slightly unsettled by the presence of Miss Baxter in the downstairs audience, related the goings on upstairs.

"You could've heard a pin drop," Molesley said breathlessly. "We were all, all of _us_ ," he indicated Andy and himself, and included, by implication, Mr. Barrow who had not yet come down, "standing there as though we'd been _petrified_."

"And then what happened?' Daisy's words came in hushed tones befitting the shocking nature of Molesley's tale.

"His Lordship and Her Ladyship, they went frosty. Not impolite. Just ... cold. Lady Mary didn't even try to conceal her anger..."

"She hadn't been trying all evening," Andy broke in. "And then His Lordship asked in this ... _cutting_ voice... what being Jewish had to do with anything, and..."

"And didn't the fool go on to answer, as though it had been a real question!" Molesley finished. "' _They're widely held responsible for the collapse of the Reichsmark_ ,' he says! ' _They're not very popular in my country_.'"

"That will have enraged His Lordship," Bates observed. He wasn't one to pay attention to gossip for the most part, but things that concerned His Lordship usually concerned Bates.

"Then the other one got into it," Andy went on, "and tried to explain that Herr Ribbentwerp hadn't really meant what he said, and no one believed him. And then the first one cottoned on, for a minute anyway, and told Lady Grantham that of course _he_ didn't feel that way..."

"Unbelievable!" Molesley declared.

"Didn't anyone call them out on this?" Daisy said. Why, she wondered, did posh people always put up with rudeness from other posh people, but never hesitate to trounce a servant who got out of line?

"Mr. Branson did. He said that kind of thinking had no place at Downton."

"And then they just...carried on?" demanded Mrs. Patmore, as enthralled as anyone else with this tale of social horror.

"Lady Mary didn't. She got up and left the room."

"I think she would rather have stayed and taken him apart limb from limb," Molesley said reflectively. It was clear he thought Lady Mary up to the task. "But she didn't want to embarrass Mr. Talbot."

"I felt sorry for _him_ ," Andy said, with feeling. "This von Ribbentwerp person wasn't his friend. He just came with Herr Morden. Mr. Talbot couldn't have known this would happen."

There were footsteps in the passage and Mr. Barrow strode in.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, looking round at them all.

"What do you think?" Mrs. Patmore said belligerently.

Thomas hesitated. It was a difficult moment. Mr. Carson would have scattered them all with a sharp reproof about gossiping. But Thomas had been as astonished as the footmen at the conversation in the dining room and would have liked to talk about it. This was, however, no longer as easy as it had once been. He had to set an example.

"Is dinner ready, Mrs. Patmore?"

She scowled at him and she and Daisy slipped away. This left Molesley standing uncomfortably beside Miss Baxter without the comforting shield of something else to talk about. Thomas offered him some relief by turning to Mr. Bates and Miss Baxter.

"His Lordship and Her Ladyship retired immediately after dinner. They said to have your dinner and them come up directly."

In the moment of diversion, Molesley slipped into the passage, muttering some feeble explanation as he went. Thomas looked after him with exasperation. He wasn't going to get away that easily.

"And not a word about any of this over our dinner," Thomas said loudly, hoping his voice reached into the kitchen and down the passage. "We've got company of our own."

 **Molesley and Baxter**

Of course, he should have just gone home when they came down from dinner. He could have done. There was no reason for him to stop here except that he was hungry. And it was just a habit of some years' duration. It was extremely awkward being here with Miss Baxter - somehow he ended up next to her at the table - when he'd spent the last three weeks avoiding her. But what else did he expect, accepting Mr. Barrow's appeal?

And then, having come, he couldn't just slip away after dinner. She had to go up and attend to Her Ladyship, so he had the opportunity to do so. But the barrier of distance that he had so scrupulously maintained lately had been shattered. It couldn't have gone on much longer anyway. He was here now. And he would have to explain. So he sat in the now-deserted servants' hall and waited.

"How are you, Mr. Molesley?"

He'd been so deep in thought about her that he hadn't heard her return. Scrambling to his feet, he banged his knee. He winced at the pain, and then his eyes fell on her face and he forgot about his knee.

It was a perfunctory question, but behind it, in the mirror of her eyes was all the hurt and hesitation that his cowardice of the past few weeks had sown there.

"Fine. Good. I've been... I'm well." He always said too much.

They stood together, uncomfortably close and yet just out of each other's reach. Not that they'd have reached for each other anyway. They hadn't gotten there yet. If they ever would.

"Shall we...?" He indicated the table and they sat down, she in her usual place and he in Mr. Barrow's chair, so that they did not have to bridge the expanse of the table along with everything else.

"How've you been?" He didn't really need to ask. She looked wretched in spirit, crumpled. He'd seen that look in her before, when she'd talked about other hurts in her life. Only this time he was the cause of it and that knowledge twisted like a knife in his gut.

"All right," she said, and gave him the shadow of a smile.

"Miss Baxter." He faltered again, but saw in her eyes, beyond the hurt there, a willingness to trust. To trust _him_. Still. He could not fail her.

"I want ... first ... to apologize. I've been ... avoiding you, and that was ... wrong. It was hurtful, though I never meant it to be. There is something about me. Not you. It has nothing to do with you, except that...I should have told you. And I'm ashamed I didn't because ..." This was agonizing. "Well. I did something shameful once." And then he halted again, shook his head. "No. Not _did_ something. I _didn't_ do something, and that was shameful."

There was a look of alarm on her face. She had some acquaintance with shameful things. "What is it?" she said, almost in a whisper.

Her question was so direct. As if he could just blurt it out!

"It's ... not easy for me to say. It's easier for me _not_ to say. Ever. And to stay right away. From you. And I've tried that, only...that doesn't really help." He looked resigned. "I suppose I always knew that."

These words only increased her concern. " _Are_ you all right, Mr. Molesley?"

He saw her whole frame trembling with the weight of his turmoil. She was the most empathetic person he knew. Unthinkingly, he placed a calming hand over hers. And then withdrew it again in haste.

"I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with me. Not in that way."

"Then...what is it?" For all the gentleness of her manner, there was an insistence in her voice that he knew he must answer. He owed it to her.

He swallowed hard. "I hesitate because... I don't like the idea of your thinking ill of me," he said. "I don't just not like it. I'm ... afraid of it. I'm terrified, really, to lose your good opinion. There aren't that many people who've _had_ a good opinion," he added, lapsing as he sometimes did into a reflective self-pity, but then abruptly shook himself out of it. That had no place here. "And your consideration," he said with some gravity, "is... well, more important than most."

"You know my past," she said earnestly, her eyes fixed on his. "I can't judge. I don't judge."

But he could not meet her gaze in return and his eyes kept darting away. "I've done worse," he said almost inaudibly.

Her eyebrows arched in disbelief. "Not you."

"Yes! Me!" He'd always been so modest, all his life. Well, this was a thing in which modesty had no place. It had to be named honestly, boldly. "I've got this ... weight... on my conscience, and it's...a grand one."

"What is it?" she asked again.

He closed his eyes for a long moment. He'd successfully suppressed his shame for so long and then, for the past few weeks, been unable to think of almost anything else, unless it was to imagine how Miss Baxter might react to it. And he'd never considered anything but revulsion on her part.

From his childhood he had imbibed the lesson that no problem was ever solved by running away. It was a lesson that came hard to him, as it had often seemed to him that getting right away from something _was_ better than standing and fighting. But he'd embraced it all the same, and taken his lumps for it usually. But during the war, he had run, in a manner of speaking. And it was only slowly dawning on him that there was another side to this truism that no one had every explained. When you stood and fought, you might be beaten - or killed, in this instance - but then it was over. When you ran away, however, it never let you go.

"It was during the war," he said at last, his voice leaden. He couldn't look at her, so he looked near her. "It was what I did during the war."

In his peripheral vision, he saw her face wrinkle in bewilderment. "I thought you didn't do anything during the war," she said. She was, of course, thinking of the conventional crimes of war, of sins of commission. No one went naturally to sins of omission in such a context.

"That's right," he said, and his voice caught a little. "I did nothing."

"But ... you couldn't," she said, still confused. "Your lungs."

There it was. His lie. He'd told her, then. He'd forgotten about that. Still he did not raise his eyes to meet hers.

"There was nothing wrong with my lungs," he said.

"What do you mean?"

Did she truly not understand? Or was there a note of indignation there? _What do you_ mean _there was nothing wrong with your lungs_!

He look a deep breath and then did look at her directly, though he could hardly see her through the blur of tears in his eyes. "There was nothing wrong with my lungs," he repeated. "It was a lie that Her Ladyship, the Dowager, made up to keep me from being conscripted. And when it was found out, I took it up and persuaded ... well, I'd already been rejected on false information. So I made out that it wasn't false."

She had that look of distress on her face, the one she wore when she saw or felt pain. He wasn't sure which it was. But he wasn't finished yet.

"I was a coward," he said abruptly, and more firmly than he'd thought possible. "A coward. I didn't want to fight for my country. I was afraid, as so many other men were, but I got out of it. I lied my way out of it."

He collapsed into his chair, exhaling heavily and closing eyes wet with tears of shame. There. He'd told her. That was one part of the burden he'd never have to bear again, even if the price was the loss of her good opinion of him.

But she said nothing, did nothing. And at length, he opened his eyes again.

She looked miserable, but she was still looking at him.

"I would understand if you..." His voice trailed off. If she would not say it, then he would.

"What?"

"If you despised me," he said wretchedly. "If you never wanted to see or speak to me again. ... If..."

"Why would I want to do any of those things?"

He was confused, and cautious. "Don't you?"

She did not respond immediately. And then finally, she said, "This is your sorrow, not mine. I can't judge you for it. Nor more than you did me for mine."

He shifted a little uneasily at that, for he _had_ struggled a little with her confession of theft and imprisonment, although his heart had brought him through it in the end.

"And I don't despise you," she added, "although I think you may despise yourself."

"Oh, yes." How could he not? He who read history and celebrated the heroic figures of the past had failed the test of honour and courage when it came to him.

"The thing is," he said softly, "I can't fix it. I can't ... undo the past. And, as it turns out, one lie does lead to another. I told it to you." And then he told her about his class and how an offhand question had precipitated this crisis. "There I am - lying to children!" He wanted to shed this shell of disgrace, discard it and never have to own it again. He buried his head in his hands.

He hardly felt the tentative fingers on his wrist. Her touch was firmer when her hand came up to stroke the side of his head. It was a tender gesture that might, in other circumstances, have awakened another kind of longing in him. In this moment, however, he almost recoiled from it.

"Why are you still here?" he wondered.

He missed her gentle smile. "Because I want to be."

He put his hand up to cover hers, holding it against his cheek. He wanted to turn his head and to press his lips to the palm of her hand, but dared not.

"I don't know what to do," he said.

She seemed to understand what he was saying. "Maybe there isn't anything you can do. Sometimes you can't fix things. You have to accept them."

His shoulders heaved. "I can't forget it."

"No. Accepting is different. Perhaps," and her tone was slightly emboldened, "I can help you there."

He lifted his head then and in her eyes saw the honesty of her words. She did not despise him, as much as he deserved it. And words that she had once spoken to him, words that were carved on his heart for the startling novelty of the sentiment therein expressed, came to his lips. "Your strength makes me stronger," he said.

She smiled, remembering. "Talking helps," she said. "Perhaps we could talk again. Soon."

He nodded. He couldn't quite muster a smile, so he only tightened his hand over hers instead.

 **Robert and Cora**

Robert and Cora had restrained themselves. No matter what the provocation, they adhered to the principle that saying nothing and withdrawing into cold distance was the civilized way to deal with rudeness. With that in mind, Robert had declined to join the younger men in after dinner brandy and cigars, and he and Cora had gone up. They maintained a cordial silence until they reached their bedroom and then, with the door firmly closed behind them, gave way to the sentiments that had seized them at the dinner table.

"What on earth was that?!" Robert demanded.

Cora only folded herself in his arms and for a long moment they held tightly to each other. Then she carefully disengaged and swept across the room to her dressing table. "I don't know what it was," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. "But I'm hoping it never happens again."

"That made the dinner with the Drumgooles seem pleasant!" he said.

This gave Cora a moment's pause. She had to think about that.

"It made me nostalgic for the days of Miss Bunting!" Robert went on.

Cora knew then that he was exaggerating. She started to laugh, and he did, too. He came over to stand behind her, reaching out to massage her shoulders. She leaned into him.

"I'm so glad Mama begged off," Cora said, eliciting a snort from Robert. "What would she have made of that!"

"I don't know," Robert mused. "She specializes in pithy and cutting putdowns the sort of which I can only dream about. I felt a bit of a fool, really, sitting there dumbfounded while Tom put the man in his place." He shook his head. "What was Henry thinking?"

"To be fair, Robert, it wasn't Henry's fault."

"No, I suppose not. I rather hope Henry and Tom don't make any business alliances with Herr Morden, even if hewas reasonable."

"Was he?"

Cora's question puzzled her husband. "Wasn't he? He apologized for von Ribbentrop's remarks. And he was clear that they won't be back tomorrow night. The prospect of breakfast with the man..." Robert could only shake his head.

"I'm going to have breakfast in bed, just in case." Cora seldom let exasperation get the better of her, but she'd found the exchange at dinner taxing. "Imagine blaming Jewish bankers for the collapse of the German Army." She sat up a little straighter and turned around in her chair. "The thing is, Robert, I think Herr Morden agreed with most of what his friend said. He didn't wade into it until he realized he'd gotten the wrong end of the stick as far as we were concerned."

"I thought Mary was going to skewer the man with her knife," Robert said, and looked as though he half-regretted her self-control. "We should make it a house rule not to discuss politics at the dinner table."

"It _is_ a house rule, darling," Cora said drily. "But I guess we're going to have to start enforcing it. You're the usual culprit." She gave him a mischievous smile.

He ignored this allegation of culpability and moved on smoothly. "I don't think the vacuous champagne salesman had anything else to talk about."

"Tom was wonderful."

"Yes, Tom _was_ wonderful." Robert sank into a chair beside the dressing table and sighed. "What are we going to do about Tom, Cora?"

She refrained from rolling her eyes at this. "Support him in his choices, visit him and Sybbie in their new home, and have them to Downton often. He's not going very far, Robert. And he needs to live his own life."

"Why can't he live it here? It's a big house."

Cora shook her head. This was an old argument between them. "Living with your in-laws, no matter _how_ big the house, is a difficult proposition. As I well know... Robert, haven't you noticed that Tom has never entertained any of his relatives here?"

Robert stared at her. "Isn't that a good thing? And there was his brother."

"All right. His brother. That once."

"Once was quite enough."

"And you wonder why he'd like to live on his own!"

Robert looked contrite. "All right, all right. But then there's this Catholic business again, too. It's good for Sybbie to attend church on Sunday with the family. It makes her part of us." He flicked a hand impatiently. "I thought he'd got over that."

"Robert!" Cora's amused indulgence of her husband's cultural narrowness was fading. "Tom _is_ a Catholic. That's not something one gets over. It's who he is. And whether you like it or not, it's who Sybbie is, too. I respect that. And," she added airily, "it won't make a whit of different what they are, because we're going to ban discussion of religion at the table, too." She laughed. "I'm afraid that's going to leave us with banal subjects like fox-hunting and fashion. Or maybe architecture!"

But Robert remained disgruntled. "I don't think it's right, Cora."

She looked at him in a kindly way, but without much sympathy. "It's going to happen anyway, darling. You'll just have to get used to it."

She turned to her dressing table and her eyes fell on the items arrayed there, prompting her to look over at her husband once more, this time with a somewhat incredulous look on her face. "Did you look closely at that valet at dinner, Robert? I'm not sure, but I _think_ he was wearing make-up!"

 **Henry and Mary**

Henry had been looking forward to this evening for weeks. Seeing Reinhard again, talking about cars - he'd been excited. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed Reinhard's friendship until they were re-living their Oxford days over tea. And now they shared a passion for cars, too, and there were not enough aficionados of the machine - or the sport - in the world for Henry. But for all that, Henry loved Mary Crawley even more, so he made his excuses and left Tom to the pleasure of an evening of intense conversation about engines and auto bodies and racing.

Tom was a godsend, in more ways than one. He'd put von Ribbentrop in his place and then firmly steered the conversation into more comfortable waters. Mary could not be won over and left, not even bothering with an excuse. Robert and Cora allowed themselves to be drawn in by Tom's light chatter and Reinhard had risen to the occasion, too, staying clear of controversy. Von Ribbentrop had fallen silent, but did not appear nearly as uncomfortable as he should have done. He consumed a lot of wine, but looked to be enjoying it rather than drowning his sorrows. What a debacle.

When Robert and Cora declined further society after dinner, Reinhard had followed them into the Great Hall and offered profuse apologies. Alone for the moment with von Ribbentrop, Henry and Tom were nonplussed with the man's nonchalance. He seemed oblivious to the disruption he had caused at dinner and entered upon a disquisition on the virtues of German champagne. Fortunately, car talk bored him and he went upstairs shortly after Reinhard rejoined them.

"Do you think we should leave him unguarded?" Tom asked.

Henry wasn't entirely sure Tom was joking. He was of two minds about this himself. But his concern had shifted from his duties as a host to thoughts of his wife, and so he left soon thereafter. Mary was not in their room. She was probably in the nursery. He _hoped_ she was in the nursery and had not de-camped entirely, blaming him for this mess. He sat on the bed, not changing his clothes, waiting.

When she came in half an hour later, Mary was wearing a dressing gown and had her evening gown folded over her arm.

"Nanny helped me out of it," she said, answering his confused look.

Of course. Evening gowns did not lend themselves to attending to babies.

"I did wonder whether I ought to be wandering the gallery my dressing gown with that creature in the house," she went on.

"How is Stephen?" Henry asked, his heart lifting at the thought of his son. The boy was truly magnificent. And mention of him never failed to bring a smile to Mary's face.

"He's a little charmer," she said warmly, allowing herself the distraction.

He went to her and when she had laid the dress over the back of a chair, he took her in his arms. "I'm sorry, my darling." But she did not unbend at his touch.

"Did you know nothing of this boor before tonight?" she demanded impatiently.

Henry shrugged and relaxed his arms. "Reinhard's met him several times, but he had no idea about his political views. Or his lack of tact." Henry had been shaken, too. He'd met crass men before, but this one had taken him by surprise. "Reinhard will apologize to your parents again in the morning. Tom and I will take them to York immediately after breakfast. They'll leave from there. We won't see von Ribbentrop again. I don't know that we'll see Reinhard any time soon. He was very embarrassed."

"I don't know why you let them in the house," Mary said forcefully, moving off.

This puzzled Henry. "I beg your pardon?"

She tossed her head impatiently. "You know what I mean. Germans." Her tone was brittle. "After that war."

"You can't ... hate ... a people, Mary," he said easily. "And certainly not forever. In a war feelings are deliberately stirred up to pit men against each other, but most of it is rot."

She stared at him. "Your friend is a pleasant man. And he is certainly a gentleman. But he believes that nonsense about the war, too, Henry. _Germany wasn't losing_. What rubbish!"

Henry went to stand by the window, drawing the curtain aside a little and staring out into the night. "You're right. Reinhard didn't deny that. But they've been hurting since the war. They lost their king. And the great estates, like the one in Reinhard's family, were destroyed. And they were humiliated at the peace."

"I don't care," Mary said bluntly. "It is supreme arrogance to come to England, to Downton - where men went away to fight and never returned, or did and ... - and to spout such nonsense and expect us to swallow it."

"I know. I was there, Mary," he said earnestly, looking back at her. "I was at Amiens on August 8. We drove them back four miles, the Australians seven, the Canadians eight. They were throwing down their guns, running away from us. They collapsed on the field, not in Berlin." He didn't talk about the war much. It was the kind of thing you wanted to put behind you.

"Then why didn't you say so?" Mary demanded. "You were the only one who could legitimately have put that appalling man in his place, but you let him babble on. And your Herr Morden, nodding approvingly, until he began to worry we'd toss them out on their ear in another minute!"

"Perhaps I ought to have done," Henry said heavily. "But it's just ... nonsense. Harmless folderol. They've got to save face somehow."

"Well, let them save it somewhere else.". Tossing her dressing gown on the chair over her dress, she climbed into bed.

Henry cocked his head to one side and looked at her. "Are you really angry about the war and von Ribbentrop's stupidity about the Jews? Or is it something else?"

She glared at him. "Haven't you been listening?"

He had. And that was the problem. He believed she _was_ angry with their guests and accepted her reasons for being so. He'd known few such disagreeable dinners in his life. But he sensed there was something more going on here, that the Germans were tonight's excuse for a coolness between them.

"I would do anything for you, darling. Anything."

The expression on her face softened. "I know. You already have."

But her acknowledgment of that didn't seem to improve things. Henry was stymied. The Mary with whom he had fallen in love wasn't a woman of secrets or hidden guilt. She wasn't afraid of her weaknesses and shortcomings. But she was holding back here and he didn't know why. If he didn't know what the problem was, how could he combat it?

"Can't you tell me what's going on, Mary?"

But she only shook her head and turned away.

He sighed and retreated to his dressing room.

 **Thomas and the Valet**

Thomas had left Molesley and Miss Baxter to it, and with her the responsibility to lock up after Molesley left. He hoped they made it up. The dark clouds of discontent that followed her through the Abbey made for a dismal atmosphere. Thomas checked all the doors and windows on the lower and main floors and then headed up the servants' staircase to bed.

What a night! It hadn't been the worst evening he had seen in the dining room. Larry Grey, Lord Merton's elder son, was a match for the champagne salesman any day, and had proven it on two occasions. His Lordship had shown remarkable restraint tonight, perhaps because he had lost his temper so thoroughly that time with Miss Sarah Bunting, the radical schoolteacher. And nothing really compared to that moment, last year, when His Lordship's ulcer had burst and drenched the dining room and the honoured guest - Minister for Health Neville Chamberlain - in blood. But the "German fiasco" was still one for the books, if only because that Ribbentrop fellow didn't know when to quit. Or perhaps he did know and just didn't care. Cheeky.

It wasn't the butler's place to have an opinion, at the dinner table anyway, although Mr. Carson had sometimes voiced one - such was his stature with the family. But if Thomas had spoken up during the evening, he would have stood firmly in support of Lady Mary, who, he thought, had taken von Ribbentrop's measure right from the start. The temerity of the man! claiming that the German Army had not been beaten! _We should have gone to Berlin_ , Thomas thought grimly.

He'd reached the men's quarters and realized that the most interesting aspect of this whole visit had somehow slipped his mind for a few minutes. Erich Miller had joined the staff for dinner and, in accordance with Thomas's directive, no one had raised the subject of the social disaster upstairs. Not in words, anyway.

Erich Miller. He was so beautiful. Thomas had never met anyone like him. And now it looked like he wouldn't have much opportunity to deepen the acquaintance, as the party was surely going to be off in the morning. Erich worked for Herr Morden who had not disgraced himself and therefore might be invited back, but Thomas suspected it would be in the more distant future, time being the only remedy to the animosity stirred this evening. Time was, therefore, something Thomas did not have. He wondered if he might...

But he was wary. A lifetime's yearning was not the same as a lifetime's experience. He'd made mistakes before and there had been serious repercussions, and not only for himself. Surely in this instance he was _not_ mistaken. Only he dare not take the chance.

He was the butler of Downton Abbey now and that had implications of its own. He felt the burden of responsibility of which Mr. Carson had spoken, a burden he had not been able to appreciate until he had shouldered it himself. Mr. Carson, of course, had never even had a _thought_ that rattled the boundaries of respectability, so he had hardly tested their strength. Why was it that when Thomas had finally gotten to where he wanted to be that things seemed more restrictive than liberating? Wasn't power supposed to bring freedom?

The door to the valet's room was ajar. Thomas knew it even as he approached it, seeing the angle of the door's shadow in the dimly lit passage.

He paused. There were only three of them up here now - Thomas, the valet, and Andy - and Andy would be fast asleep. He'd come up directly after dinner and his light was out. _And_ he slept readily and was a heavy sleeper. They'd discussed sleeping habits once, when Thomas confessed to his midnight rambles. But the valet ... his door was ajar and there was a light within.

His heart was pounding in his chest from ... anticipation? excitement? ... the thrill of adventure? of not knowing? It was an invitation. It must be an invitation. He had a moment of doubt. Perhaps the invitation wasn't meant for him. But ... no. The valet had been staring at _him_ , not Andy. And it was an invitation Andy would never even recognize, let alone accept.

He tapped lightly on the door. It feathered open.

Erich Miller sat at the writing desk on the other side of the room, his back to Thomas. He was bent over a small mirror.

"Hello," Thomas said, thinking that sounded a bit stupid, but what else was there to say? It surprised him that his voice seemed so normal. And why shouldn't it? _You're thirty-six, not seventeen_! "Are you comfortable,... Erich? Is there anything you need?"

Erich had gotten to his feet and turned around before Thomas had finished speaking. Thus far, Thomas had only seen the man in formal attire - the flawlessly fitting tails or the livery with which he had been provided to serve at dinner. He had shed the jacket now and the crisp white shirt that had been buttoned up to his throat was completely open, the ends hanging raggedly over his waistband. He wore no undershirt. Thomas couldn't help but stare. It had been a while since he'd seen so much of another man _and_ been allowed to appreciate the view. And what a chest. Like the beautiful face above it, the chest was magnificent. And bare. The novelty of a hairless chest was gratifyingly seductive.

Still Thomas hesitated. Surely these were signs, but he'd been burned before. "Well," he said, not sure where to go from here.

"Mr. Barrow."

The valet's tone was abrupt, almost business-like. Thomas was perplexed.

But then Erich strode across the room until he was standing right in front of Thomas, so close that the butler could feel the other man's breath on his face. There was a minty aroma to it that prompted Thomas to an unexpected smile. He liked mint. Erich reached around him, batting the door gently so that it silently closed over.

As he did this, Erich leaned in more closely to Thomas, the heat of his body radiating even through the folds of Thomas's livery, those sculpted lips lingering by Thomas's ear.

"You are in hell, Mr. Barrow. And I am here to rescue you." And then he pressed his mouth to the taut muscle in Thomas's neck, evoking a gasp of pleasure, relief, exhilaration. "If you're interested," Erich added softly, and then chuckled.

Then those compelling arms were encircling him and, with a sigh that spoke of a hunger too long suppressed, Thomas relaxed into the embrace.

 **Author's Note:** Things will lighten up - a little - in Chapter 4.


	10. Chapter 10

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.**

 **EPISODE 3. Chapter 4**

 **Dinner with the Carsons**

It was a pleasant thing to be working together in their own kitchen.

"Do you know," Elsie said, glancing over her shoulder from the counter where she stood preparing vegetables, "this is the first dinner party we've had."

Her husband was a few feet away, polishing wine glasses very carefully. He made sure to hold them over the counter lest he suffer a sudden spasm. "I don't know why we're having one now."

She smiled at his almost reflexive grumbling. He'd set the table while she prepared the meal, and she'd seen him measuring the place settings. Charlie Carson was always going to do things properly.

She heard him cross the room and was already leaning back into him when he slid his arms around her and then nuzzled her neck. There was still a lot of work to be done, a lot of cooking to be done, but she didn't mind a momentary distraction.

"Aren't you a little intimidated, having Mrs. Patmore to dinner?" he asked, releasing her and then standing to one side.

"Thank you for your vote of confidence, Mr. Carson," she said tartly, giving him a look. "Why should I be?"

He knew he'd put his foot in it a bit, and tried to dissemble. "Well, it's Mrs. Patmore, isn't it? It's like me showing up at Downton and Mr. Barrow feeling just a little on edge because of it."

Elsie doubted Mr. Barrow ever gave her husband's critical eye a second thought. Thomas was the butler now and it would take more than the disapproval of his predecessor to shake him. "Mrs. Patmore knows she's the best cook in the world," Elsie said, a little acerbically, for it was her view that Downton's cook thought too highly of her own professional abilities, "so she's got realistic expectations of me. I've made a roast of lamb and vegetables, nothing too ambitious. It'll be tasty and properly done, even if it isn't veal Prince Orloff or lobster Thermidor."

"It sounds delicious," Charlie said warmly, trying to recover her favour.

"I hope you're going to be cooperative," she said, with a warning note in her voice.

"What do you mean?"

She turned then and fixed him with a meaningful look, unimpressed with his attempt at disingenuousness. "You know what I'm talking about."

"I won't be party to your schemes," he said firmly, acknowledging the point she was trying to make.

"Just so long as you don't derail them either."

He meditated on this for a moment. "I think I can just about manage that."

The guests arrived separately, Mrs. Patmore coming down from the Abbey and Mr. Mason trekking over from Yew Tree Farm, which was in the opposite direction. Mr. Mason arrived first, with a basket of produce in his arms.

"A farmer never comes empty-handed," he declared.

When Mrs. Patmore appeared at the door a few moments later, she, too, came bearing gifts. "It's an apple tart," she announced, declining to hand it to Charlie, but allowing Elsie to take it when she joined them at the door. "I know you've got your meal already planned, but it's a cook's nature to bring food. You can put it in the larder for tomorrow."

The dinner might have been, by Elsie's own admission, a good plain meal, but the wines were of a superior calibre. Charlie had his own wine cellar now, and though it wasn't as formal as the one at Downton Abbey, it served its purpose. And he'd made an arrangement with Thomas about ordering wine that ensured access to the same high quality vintages he'd known for the past several decades. Charlie might wish he could still pour them as well, but for safety's sake he'd relinquished that task to Elsie.

Mrs. Patmore relished a nice glass of wine. She did not have many opportunities to indulge that taste. As she savoured her first sip, her gaze fell on the dog quietly ensconced by the hearth.

"So you keep him inside, do you?"

The others glanced in Shep's direction.

"He's a pet," Elsie said. "There'd be no point in putting him out. He's like a member of the family."

"I wouldn't say that," Charlie said stiffly, with a slightly reproving look.

Elsie only smiled at this. For all his fastidiousness, it was Charlie who had taken to the dog and would not hear of him being put out, even in the mud room. And it was he who, despite the handicap of his unreliable hand, kept the dog's magnificent coat in top condition.

The conversation unfolded in the conventional line of pleasantries at first. It gratified Elsie to see the shy glances the two guests shot at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking. Mr. Mason came across pleased at the opportunity to see the cook in more relaxed circumstances, and Mrs. Patmore was almost coy with regard to him. Still, she could not contain her naturally convivial personality for long and was soon entertaining them all with the story of the German guests at Downton. She had gotten her information second-hand through the footmen, and her audience had each heard parts of it, but she told a good story and they listened attentively.

Mr. Mason shook his head over the debate about the war. "Toffs," he said, with a touch of impatience. "They all bang on about it, of course, but who does the fighting and dying in these terrible wars but the ordinary lads."

"You can say that again," Mrs. Patmore agreed emphatically.

Neither Elsie nor Charlie completely agreed. The British aristocracy had been devastated by the war, heirs and spares falling like nine pins, leaving great families across the realm in danger of extinction. Elsie was less concerned than her husband about this practical effect than just the sheer fact of one in five from the aristocratic class dying for King and country. ***** But they did not challenge their guests. Mr. Mason had lost a son and Mrs. Patmore a nephew and they were entitled to let their personal experiences colour their opinions. The Carsons had lost no one.

"I'd know more about what happened at dinner," Mrs. Patmore went on, "but Mr. Barrow put his foot down about more talk."

"As he should have done," Charlie intoned approvingly.

Mrs. Patmore only rolled her eyes at him. "You should have seen the valet!" she went on. Here she had the evidence of her own eyes and her narrative consequently grew more animated. "He was one, I tell you! I never saw such a pretty face on a man. And you'd have seen him, too," she added, speaking specifically to Elsie, "if you'd not run off home so early to make dinner for himself here. Oh! This fellow, he made Rudolph Valentino look plain!" But then her voice dropped and she leaned over the table in a conspiratorial manner. "He was wearing make-up!"

"Make-up!" Mr. Mason snorted in shock. "On a man!"

At the end of the table, Charlie glowered. "He'd not have been wearing it long if I'd been in charge," he said grimly.

Elsie was no less startled by this revelation, but her husband's predictable reaction won an indulgent smile from her and she glanced toward him fondly.

Mrs. Patmore caught this look, but was less indulgent of her host. "Mr. Barrow didn't seem to mind," she said lightly, well aware that she was stirring the pot.

"I'll bet he didn't," Charlie said fiercely. Every time he was inclined to moderate his view of Mr. Barrow, the butler went and did something else that irritated him. He opened his mouth to pontificate further on the subject, but at a look from Elsie, he desisted, choosing to offer the wine around instead. He felt more confident after he'd had a glass or two. Alcohol made the tremors less likely.

"How's your book coming along?" Mrs. Patmore asked, not put out by the fact that her provocation hadn't led to anything.

"What's that?" Mr. Mason turned to the end of the table. "You're writing a book, are you? What about?"

Charlie drew himself up proudly. "It's a history of the Crawley family," he said formally, investing this statement with all the gravity he could muster."

"Then you best get on with it," Mr. Mason quipped, "before _they're_ all history!" He and the two women laughed. Charlie was not amused. He took the work seriously and the farmer's comment also struck him as disrespectful of the family. This is what came of socializing with tenant farmers. He glowered in Elsie's direction, as if to make this point without words, but the sight of her fine features, animated with mirth, melted him again.

"I hope it's more accurate than that piece on a great dinner party," Mrs. Patmore said.

"What?" Charlie turned on her, affronted again.

She was not cowed by his indignation. "You wrote a whole great article on a dinner party, Mr. Carson, and never mentioned the food."

"It wasn't about _food_ ," he protested. "It was about the _spectacle_ of a grand dinner party. It was about _style_."

Mrs. Patmore was unfazed. "Aye, but if there wasn't any _food_ at the heart of it, there wouldn't be a dinner, would there!"

"Well, write your own article!" he retorted, his feathers still ruffled. It was a weak rejoinder.

"Maybe I will," the cook said airily.

"What were you doing reading it anyway?" he asked huffily.

"Your wife showed it to me."

This caught Charlie unawares. He looked immediately to Elsie. "Did you?" His exasperation with his guests was gone, replaced by surprise. She had teased him so much about it, he thought she'd found it ridiculous.

"My husband has been published in a national magazine," she said proudly. "I've shown it to everyone."

There was a quiet moment while he digested this, and then smiled, and Elsie returned his gaze with a warm smile of her own.

"It's very well written," Mrs. Patmore said, breaking into this intimate moment. "Except for the food part."

His good humour restored by the welcome revelation from Elsie, Charlie turned again to the cook with a more congenial countenance. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore."

"I'd never looked at that magazine before," she said. "I liked the 'agony aunt' column. It was fun to read, although I can't imagine writing to a stranger about my problems."

"Nobody would," Mr. Mason said. "They make it up."

"Miss Denker says that Mr. Spratt writes that column," Elsie said, in an almost hushed tone, not so much in awe as disbelief.

"That wound-up old sourpuss!" Mrs. Patmore shook her head. "Even if you could believe anything Miss Denker says, that would be hard to swallow."

"Mr. Spratt would not lower himself to such nonsense," Charlie said evenly. He missed the look the women exchanged. "To answer your question, Mrs. Patmore," he went on, carefully drawing the conversation away from the Dowager's staff members, for neither of whom he had much regard, " _my_ book - or at least the work on my book - is beginning to take shape. I've had a few letters of application for an assistant, including two very promising ones I received today, and I've written them back. I shall be interviewing them on Friday."

Elsie stared at him. "You didn't tell me that."

There was a measure of contrition in his voice. "You weren't here this morning when they arrived, and you've been preoccupied with dinner. I was going to tell you tonight."

"What do you need an assistant for?" Mr. Mason asked. "Aren't you writing the thing?"

"I have a condition, Mr. Mason, that makes it difficult for me to write. And it's a big project."

"So who are these candidates?"

"Well," Charlie said, looking at his wife, "one of them is a young woman from over Swaledale way, just finished some secretarial training course. And the other...," he dragged it out, because she'd already expressed her opinion firmly on this, and he was particularly interested in her reaction, "is from London."

That did take her aback. "London! Can you imagine," she said, looking around at their guests, "someone in London coming to Yorkshire to help write a book."

But Mrs. Patmore's mind was elsewhere. "And you're all right with him gadding about attics and libraries with some young woman in tow, are you? Wouldn't it be better if it was some old lass who'd been retired before her time?"

"Someone like us, you mean?" Elsie laughed. "No, Mrs. Patmore. I'm not worried. He's not about to get up to anything."

Charlie was looking from one to the other, aghast at the implications from both of them. "What are you suggesting!"

"Now, don't be insulted, Charlie," Elsie said soothingly, but with a hint of a smile all the same. "Neither one of us is suggesting anything. I only meant that you're a very happily married man..."

"Not that I'd misbehave in any case."

"... _and_ that you'd never do anything improper anyway. This is only someone to take dictation and type up notes," she added, explaining to Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Mason.

"Well, all right." Mrs. Patmore said, almost grudgingly, but with a twinkle in her eye. Mr. Carson was so easy to tease. It really wasn't a fair sport.

They retired to the sitting room after dinner for a brandy for the men and sherry for the women.

"Your dinner was lovely," Mrs. Patmore told her friend, as they all made themselves comfortable, the Carsons in their chairs, their guests together on the sofa. Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore might not have ended up there but for some deft maneuvering on Elsie's part. Charlie, oblivious, had just gone to his usual chair.

"Aye," Mr. Mason said, adding his compliments. "All the downstairs women at Downton Abbey are dab hands in the kitchen."

Elsie was pleased by the compliments and impressed by Mr. Mason's tact. He had praised her cooking without overstating it or, perhaps more importantly, undermining his regard for Mrs. Patmore's skills.

"You've a cozy place here," Mr. Mason went on. "They've done right by you, the Crawleys have."

"We're very comfortable," Elsie agreed. "But you've quite a nice place, too, at Yew Tree Farm."

"Oh, aye. It's a grand house. Although," he added, "a bit big."

"But better now that Daisy's there," Mrs. Patmore chipped in.

"And she's doing well?" Elsie asked.

"Daisy," Mr. Mason said earnestly, "has fit right in. It's like she's always been there. But ...," he ventured cautiously, "it were built for a family. The previous tenants had three or four children. A house should have people in it." He glanced, almost involuntarily, in Mrs. Patmore's direction, but she did not seem to notice.

With their glasses empty and the fire burning low, the guests got up to go at the end of the evening.

"I'll walk you back to the Abbey, if you like, Mrs. Patmore," Charlie offered. "I've got to take the dog out."

Both Elsie and Mr. Mason looked up in surprise at this statement, but Mrs. Patmore was already accepting before either could protest.

"You've got to get on," Mrs. Patmore said to Mr. Mason, with an air that was almost too hearty. "Daisy will be wondering where you've got to."

They parted at the door with warm words for the hospitality of the Carsons and, in their turn, the pleasure at hosting their guests. Mr. Mason turned left and disappeared into the darkness, Mrs. Patmore and Charlie heading the other way, up the gravel path to the Abbey, with Shep trotting effortlessly beside them. Elsie stood at the door, watching them go and wondering what had just happened.

He wouldn't be gone long, she knew that. So while she waited for him to return and explain himself, she put away the leftovers - her lamb _had_ been good! - and tidied up the kitchen.

It wasn't much more than twenty minutes before he was back again.

"What were you thinking?" she asked as soon as he came through the door. "You ought to have let Mr. Mason take her home."

But he was unrepentant. "She's not keen, Elsie."

"That's news to me! Did she say so?"

"No," he said carefully, "but didn't you notice? We talked about Downton all night. Oh, you went off on sheep farms a bit with him. But they weren't ... really talking to each other."

She was exasperated. "Only because you and she kept crossing swords. And Downton is all you and I ever talked about."

"Mrs. Patmore was more comfortable picking at me," he said easily, coming to stand very close to her, leaning down a bit that he might inhale the sweet fragrance of her hair. "They're not like us, love. There was no ... sparkle ... between them."

Although she was discouraged by what he said, she could not but be distracted by the nearness of him. "And was there ... sparkle ... between us, Mr. Carson?" she asked playfully, lifting her chin.

"Always," he breathed, and pressed his lips to hers.

It wasn't true - about them. For much of their acquaintance there had been more sparks than sparkle. But in the moment that didn't much matter.

 **Thomas**

"Nothing happened."

Even as he said it, Thomas resented having to say it. But Andy had been avoiding him, insofar as that was possible in their work, ever since the morning after the dinner debacle upstairs. It was a consequence of Thomas slipping out of the German valet's room at daybreak and colliding with Andy in the passage. Andy was rarely up before Thomas, but he'd woken with a headache and had been in search of a cold compress. And run into the butler in a state of semi-undress - his jacket over his arm, his shirt open halfway down his chest, his shoes in hand. Andy's eyes had gone round, he'd stammered an apology, and then he'd rushed off. And he hadn't met Thomas's eyes directly since. And that was a situation Thomas couldn't tolerate for long, not when he had to rely on Andy so much.

He'd invited Andy into the pantry after the servants' dinner was over and the others had dispersed. And gestured for him to sit as well. Thomas didn't want this to be a formal interview, one between the butler and the footmen, but rather a conversation between two friends. He wasn't sure the message had gotten across, which made it necessary for him to say even more.

"We got to talking. He was telling me about Berlin. It's ... fascinating. I fell asleep in the chair in his room. And I had a crick in my neck the next morning to prove it." Thomas waited and then added, "Andy?"

The young man looked at him then. They stared at each other for a long moment and then Andy exhaled deeply and nodded. "All right, Mr. Barrow. Thomas." He looked relieved. "I'm sorry I even... Well. I'll ... we can just forget it."

Thomas watched him go with mingled relief and irritation. He wasn't afraid that Andy would report him in any case, but he did want to keep that young man's good opinion, even if it was annoying that that meant suppressing himself yet again. His irritation, however, had much more to do with the night he had spent with Erich Miller than with anything Andy might think. This was because his confession to the footman was accurate. Nothing _had_ happened. At least, not much.

When Erich's arms had encircled him, Thomas had been transported. It was the nature of this world that interaction was often hurried, secretive, and uneven or unequal. That inequality might take the form of differences in age or experience, and had usually, in Thomas's acquaintance, involved a discrepancy in social status as well. Finding a partner, a true companion in every sense of the word, was a dim prospect and one fraught with almost insurmountable obstacles.

But as he lost himself in the kisses and caresses of this beautiful man, and responded with fervour, Thomas felt that he'd made a proper match here. He couldn't be certain, but he thought they were roughly the same age. For all the urbanity of Erich's manner, Thomas sensed they were on equal footing in terms of experience - his touch as welcome to the other as Erich's were to him. And they were men of comparable rank as well. There was no social barrier here, no superior standing that might be wielded in a power play. Thomas had known that in his life, notably in his relations with the less than noble Duke of Crowborough, and learned to be wary of it.

This, this was different. Thomas was overcome with a joyfulness - not merely pleasure, which was so fleeting and superficial, but a _joyfulness_ \- he had not known in a long time.

And then Erich abruptly stepped back. When Thomas moved with him, thinking it was an invitation to the next stage of the game, Erich withdrew again. Thomas was shaken.

"What?" He couldn't even voice the confusion he felt, but Erich could not have mistaken the shock and disappointment in his voice and demeanour.

There was a semblance of contrition in Erich's countenance, but also a resolve. "Never in a room without a lock on the door," Erich said calmly, by way of explanation. "Certainly not in England." He turned away then and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the night table, coolly lighting one and then extending it to Thomas in a gesture of reconciliation.

Thomas ignored this. "What?" he said again.

Erich waved the cigarette about. "Your country, Thomas," he pronounced it _Tō - măs,"_ is barbaric. It's not safe here."

Thomas struggled to understand. He fixed on the specific problem Erich had raised. "I'm the butler," he said earnestly, impatiently. "I've got the keys to everything. We can find..."

But Erich was shaking his head. "It is not something with which I take chances. I have no desire to ruin my life at hard labour like Oscar Wilde."

This drew a deep groan from Thomas. "That was _thirty years ago_! And what are you afraid of? There's _no one here_!" He flung his arms out, encompassing with them the servants' quarters.

Erich was unmoved. "There is the footman."

"He sleeps very soundly." But Thomas could see it was a losing battle. The exuberance he'd felt only moments ago evaporated. "Bloody hell." He stalked over to the bed and sat down heavily upon it. "What were you going on about _rescue_ then?"

The other man did not immediately answer. He put his cigarette into the ashtray and turned to pour water from the jug on the night table into the large washbowl that stood there. They'd had proper bathrooms in the servants' quarters at Downton since before the war, but this convention of individual wash-up facilities had not disappeared. Thomas watched disconsolately as Erich indulged this ritual, scrubbing his face with his own facecloth and then towelling himself dry before turning to Thomas once more.

With the make-up gone, Erich was still handsome, but not quite as stunning as he had been. Or perhaps he had lost some of his lustre with his disenchanting behaviour. He tossed the towel aside and then reached out to the hard-back chair that he'd been sitting in earlier and dragged it over that he might sit beside Thomas.

"I meant what I said, Thomas. About you, I mean. I could see from the moment I arrived here what a painful thing it is for you to live here, in this ..." Erich struggled to find the words, whether because he did not have the English vocabulary for it or that they simply did not exist, was not clear. "... this frontier. You might as well be an American cowboy on the range, as a butler in Yorkshire. It is all barbarism."

Thomas could only stare, not at all understanding what the other was talking about.

Erich sighed. "You have no idea, Thomas, you _can_ have no idea, what life is like in Berlin these days." A glow came over him, re-infusing his face with some of the glamour soap and water had washed off. "To indulge in ... furtive fumbling in a dank little room in Yorkshire, it is so ...tawdry."

Abruptly he took Thomas's hand and just this contact, which was by no means especially warm or flirtatious, ignited Thomas's desire once more. But Erich's mind was elsewhere.

"You must come to Berlin. I want you to see and know and ... _feel_ ... the difference of a life in a world where you can be who you are and partake in all the aspects of it. Thomas, promise me, you will come to Berlin."

For a moment there was almost a magical quality to the atmosphere around them as Thomas stared into the magnetic eyes that drew him even in his disappointment. And then reality intruded.

"That's likely," he said sarcastically, coldly, and pulled his hand away.

Erich was not put off. "It will only be a matter of your getting there. I can provide you with accommodations and meals."

"I am the _butler_ of Downton Abbey," Thomas said peremptorily. "I can't just walk away for a week."

"And you cannot make ... arrangements?"

Thomas's mind strayed automatically to possibilities. Mr. Carson? _Molesley_? "N-no. I don't think so."

Erich was unimpressed. "Well, look into it." He thought for a moment. "You are the butler. You must make a trip to investigate continental wines. Germany is the new centre for wine."

Despite himself, Thomas laughed, though it was not a laugh of amusement. "After the display this evening? I doubt they'll let a German wine be served here ever again!"

Erich shrugged dismissively. "That idiot. I told Reinhard he was trouble. Do you know that Ribbentrop _paid_ one of his relatives to adopt him so that he could add _von_ to his name?"

"Reinhard?" Thomas had called one or another of the Crawleys by their first names over the years, behind their backs, but had never done so in such a familiar tone as Erich used about his employer.

"We have known each other for a long time," Erich explained dispassionately. "He tolerates my interests, and I look the other way at his ... indiscretions. I cannot be more explicit. I have my honour, too, Thomas."

"Oh." Thomas wasn't sure what else to say.

"Let us leave it for now, Thomas. The details will work themselves out. Let me tell you instead what awaits you in Berlin."

And although he thought it all a pipe dream, Thomas listened as Erich wove a portrait of an open society where men could meet and socialize and fall in love with other men within the most vibrant cultural outpouring "since the Renaissance!" Erich declared. "All is permitted in Berlin!" There were clubs just for men like themselves. "And also for women!" It was possible to go to restaurants and theatres and city parks and express affection for each other "just like everyone else."

"But ... how?" Thomas couldn't imagine it, though he couldn't see how Erich could make it up.

"Berlin is the freest city in the world!"

They talked into the night, in a haze of cigarette smoke, and though Thomas was sorely disappointed by this unexpected re-direction of their interaction, he was nevertheless intrigued. And a different sort of longing was awakened within him. He was attracted to men, not to women, and that fact had made a pariah of him in his own home - in his family, in the community in which he lived, and even in his country. The fundamental elements of this longing were not so very different from men who were "normal." All healthy men shared a vigorous carnal appetite. But only those who were drawn to women also had the opportunity to establish more complex relationships, sanctified by church and society, wherein they might enjoy a deeper communion still of heart, and mind, and soul, as well as of body. Thomas was as interested in physical gratification as the next man, but he longed, too, for the whole package, the _relationship_ that was almost impossible to attain in a world where such relations proscribed by law and social convention. This tale of Berlin wooed him. It was intoxicating. He had not known it existed and once he had been admitted to the mystery, he realized he wanted to see it, if only to know that it was not such an impossible dream.

He had fallen asleep, eventually, though it was well into the small hours of the morning that he did so. When he awoke, just before dawn, his mouth was dry with stale smoke and he felt already the penalties of not getting a proper rest. He'd collapsed on Erich's bed and the valet was sprawled on the floor with his own fine tailcoat rolled up under his head.

Erich did not stir as Thomas stood up. For a moment, Thomas just looked at the valet. His was still a pretty face, even in sleep. There was no denying that Thomas felt a deep vein of regret. No, disappointment. But that did not diminish the attraction or even the affection that had developed in their brief encounter. He crouched beside the slumbering man and kissed him tenderly so as not to disturb him. He did not have to worry with Erich, as he once had with footman Jimmy Kent, that his attentions would be unwelcome, but he did not wish to wake him either. Their moment had passed.

As he straightened up again, Thomas could think of nothing but Berlin. Erich had given him something more meaningful, more consequential, if not as immediately gratifying, than a fleeting coupling: hope.

He wanted to go to Berlin.

 **Daisy**

Daisy had left Yew Tree Farm that morning in high spirits.

"'Bye, Dad!" she had called, going out the door. The address became easier all the time. She liked it. It sounded right. And though it was a small thing in itself, it reiterated for her the wisdom of her decision to embrace her life as _Daisy Mason_ and to put the regrets of the past behind her. "Enjoy your dinner with the Carsons. And Mrs. Patmore!" There was a mischievous smile on her face as she added this last. For a while, she had balked at the idea of Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore being anything other than mere acquaintances, but that had been her own insecurity talking. Who knew what would come of their friendship? But wherever it went, Daisy no longer had any objections.

Mr. Mason was already gone when Daisy returned at the end of the day, although it was a fairly early evening for her. She'd managed dinner at the Abbey in Mrs. Patmore's absence, which had only involved sending supper up to the nursery and putting on dinner for the servants, as the family were out. Mrs. Patmore had left all the decisions up to Daisy and she had taken the liberty of making an Eccles cake for the children. Nannies, Daisy believed, were dark creatures who seemed determined to deprive upstairs children - who ought to be indulged, or what else was their superior social status for? - of small pleasures like delicious food. Wasn't that why Master George and Miss Sybbie were in the kitchen at every opportunity? Mrs. Patmore was forever giving them a biscuit on the side or letting them lick a bowl of cake dough. They might not get to eat the cake Daisy had made, but the nannies were going to have an uncomfortable evening if they didn't.

The servants usually ate later, but that was only because the family sat down to dinner at eight. Mr. Barrow had agreed that an earlier hour was more appropriate tonight and as a result Daisy had the table cleared and the dishes all done by early evening. And that meant she could go home.

Home.

She'd never had a home, not a proper one. Not that she remembered anyway. But that had changed when she moved into Yew Tree Farm and it was still a bit of a thrill for to take charge of some of the chores there. There was a lot of work to be done, but she didn't mind that, not when it was for _her_ home and family.

Mr. Mason had already been in residence a few months when Daisy moved in, but Yew Tree Farm had not as yet yielded all of its secrets. There were cupboards and closets yet to be examined, and boxes out in the shed with who-knew-what in them. This evening Daisy wanted to get after the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen. Because of the way the doors were fixed, it was a useless space, the corner angle too far to reach without almost crawling into the cupboard itself. But Daisy could see that there were jars on the shelf there, probably preserving jars that she could use, if only she could retrieve them.

She had to clear the closer part of the shelf in order to wedge herself, uncomfortably, into the opening, but she managed it and discovered that she was right. There were a half dozen of the squat jars that she used in canning. She stretched her hand into the corner, her fingers feathering the back wall, just to make sure there was nothing else, and came across another bottle, different from the others. She drew it out, extracted herself from the cupboard, and examined her find.

It was an empty milk bottle, the sort of which they seldom saw at Downton, for milk came to them from the farms in milk cans, not in store-bought bottles. Even more intriguing than the vessel itself, however, was that inside of it were some rolled up pages.

"A message in a bottle!"

Daisy didn't even move from the floor, although she did turn around so that she might sit more comfortably with her back against the cupboard. The mystery of it appealed to her. She'd read a story once about someone finding a message in a bottle - a plea for help! - although it had been a corked bottle that had been tossed in the sea and found years later on a foreign shore. It was unlikely that this was a distress call from the distant past, but it was intriguing all the same.

She unrolled the pages - there were two - and attempted to flatten them out against her knees. They resisted somewhat, but eventually she had them where she wanted them. The papers were filled with a close text written in a fairly legible hand, marred in spots by what appeared to be water stains, blurring some of the words.

Excited by her find, Daisy began to read.

 **Tom**

Tom was getting ready for bed. He was the last one to retire for the night, save Barrow, who had appeared when the family returned and then gone off on his rounds to secure the house for the night.

Tom had a number of things on his mind, paramount among them his plans to move with Sybbie to the agent's cottage. He'd told her a few days earlier and elicited a mixed reaction. She was an adventurer, Sybbie was, like her mother, so the prospect of setting out on their own again had some appeal, especially as this time they would not be crossing an ocean without hope of seeing Granny and Donk again. But she'd not been happy about leaving George. When she asked whether Nanny would be coming, too, and who would cook for them, however, he was glad of his decision. He and Sybil had lived simply in Dublin, in the few months they'd had together, doing their own chores, making their own meals. This would not be the case when Tom and Sybbie moved down the road. They couldn't escape the Crawley orbit that easily. But it was step in the right direction.

Neither Cora nor Robert were enthusiastic, although Tom believed his mother-in-law understood and approved, whatever she might feel in her heart. Robert's feelings were not so mixed and he hadn't tried to mask his unhappiness. But Tom expected nothing less. With Robert, time was always a factor. He'd come around ... eventually.

More worrying for Tom was the situation with Mary and Henry. Mary wasn't happy and Tom stirred uneasily over this. He knew that his unbridled enthusiasm for his sister-in-law's marriage to his new best friend had not been entirely welcomed by her. Mary did not like to be told what to do. He wondered if he ought not to have left them to their own devices.

Whatever was going on between them had not been helped by the visit of the Germans. Reinhard Morden was affable enough, and Tom and Henry had found in him, as they expected, a kindred spirit when it came to cars. But the dinner itself had been a bad business. For Tom it was more than the insulting behaviour of Joachim von Ribbentrop and his not-so-veiled antipathy to Jews, although he could hardly have known how close that struck at the family. Those remarks were enough to prompt Tom to a firm and unforgiving rebuke. But when the Englishmen and the Germans both tried to claim the moral high ground over the war, Tom had to shake his head. They'd all been complicit. It was the nature of imperialism to stoke conflict and defy reasoned appeals to calm.

As he folded his clothes and made ready to get into bed, Tom's mind drifted to the other thing. The incidents. There'd been three of them now - the cow patty in the car, the ink spill on his desk, and then, a few days ago, his tweed jacket tossed into a muddy puddle. He'd left the coat draped over the seat, and the car in the alley behind the shop where he and Henry parked, and then come back to find the coat on the ground, just a couple of feet away. The first incident might have been a prank, the second an accident. But what bothered him most about the third, apart from the fact that it confirmed the existence of a petty vendetta, was that it suggested someone was watching him, following him. Or at the very least that someone knew enough of his habits to know where he parked his car. He wasn't nervous. The incidents were minor, still reflecting a schoolboy mentality. But he was unsettled. His awareness was heightened. He looked around more. He studied the faces, especially those of young men or youths. It was this, more than the episodes themselves, that bothered him. He didn't like to be suspicious.

He turned out the light and settled under the covers, closing his eyes. And then it occurred to him that he ought to say his prayers. It had been a nightly ritual of his childhood, he and his brothers kneeling on the hard, cold wood floors beside their beds. They used to rush through the litany of "God bless Dad, Mum,...," running the names of family members together, and then vying with each other to see who could say the rote prayers the fastest. It hadn't spoken much of their devotion, but they were just boys, after all. Repetition and ritual had made an impression nonetheless. He'd never given up on God and he hadn't abandoned praying, even after Sybil's death. No, he'd clung to his faith then. It was when he'd begun to emerge from the shadow of that dark chapter, that moment when he'd largely surrendered his personal autonomy within the larger embrace of his wife's family, that he'd lapsed. It wasn't only his politics that had gotten lost in the shuffle. But if he were serious about raising his daughter as a Catholic, then perhaps he ought to practice what he preached. He had no idea where his rosary was. For the moment, though, he could always count off Hail Marys on his fingers.

He'd not made it through the first decade and was already drowsy when a loud crash and the splintering of glass not ten feet from his bed jolted him to consciousness. He sat bolt upright and then leaped to his feet. It was his impulse to dash to the window, now jagged with broken glass, but he had the wherewithal to give a wide berth to the floor in front of the near window which was littered with shards of glass. He went instead to the far window and peered out into the darkness. It was a moonless night and he could see almost nothing beyond the immediate perimeter of the Abbey. Nothing stirred. So he crossed the room again and turned on the light.

A good-sized rock, a little larger than the size of a man's fist, lay in the middle of the floor. It would have taken a strong arm to propel it to this height unless the culprit was standing quite close to the house. Tom extinguished the light again and, balancing the rock in his hand, returned to the window, staring into the darkened grounds where there was no movement at all.

His room was near the end of the passage, separated from the next occupied chamber by two unoccupied rooms. No one else had heard the commotion. He was relieved. This was something the needed to think about himself.

This was no prank. He had an enemy. But who?

 **END OF EPISODE 3**

 ***Author's Note:** The statistic of one in five men from aristocratic families dying in the war comes from David Cannadine, _The Decline and Fall of the British Aristocracy_ , (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), page 82.


	11. Chapter 11

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**.

 **EPISODE 4. Chapter 1.**

 **Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson**

Daisy was in a grumpy mood again and for once Mrs. Patmore was not inclined to call her on it. This latest funk had begun the day after the dinner party at the Carsons' and Mrs. Patmore, who could add two and two together as well as anyone, was convinced that Daisy's surliness was a reflection of Mr. Mason's disappointment at how the evening had turned out.

It had been crystal clear to Mrs. Patmore and, she assumed, to Mr. Mason that Mrs. Carson's purpose was to draw them together. Although she'd never expected to be the target of anyone's match-making schemes, Mrs. Patmore had not resisted it. In fact, she'd welcomed it. She'd gone to the cottage in the lane in good humour, thinking this was how things were supposed to move along. But somehow it hadn't quite lived up to expectations, though she wasn't able to explain why, and she had come away from the evening somewhat deflated, and glad that Mr. Carson rather than Mr. Mason had taken her home, sparing her some awkwardness.

Mr. Carson had said nothing to her, nor she to him. It was more difficult to put off _Mrs._ Carson, who had arrived the morning after full of cheerful comment about how nice it had been to entertain and to spend some time with another couple. There hadn't been much opportunity in the few days since to have a real heart-to-heart, but Mrs. Patmore didn't expect that to last any longer than Daisy's bottled-up temper.

The dam broke in Mrs. Carson's corner first and so Mrs. Patmore found herself without an excuse to avoid a cup of tea in the housekeeper's sitting room during a lull on Friday morning. Accepting that a discussion of the dinner party was inevitable, Mrs. Patmore seized the conversational initiative.

"You put on a fine meal," she said heartily, not insincerely. "The lamb was well done and the mint sauce was delicious." She stopped short of saying she couldn't have done better herself, because she could have. But that was not the point here.

"Do you know, I don't mind it, really, cooking," Elsie admitted. "And the adjustment of my hours is helping there."

"Then that's working out, is it?"

Elsie shrugged. "Well, I don't know for how long, and we've not got all the wrinkles ironed out yet. But I think the additional responsibilities - and pay - appeal to Madge. She never really enjoyed being a lady's maid to Lady Hexham, when she was Lady Edith, but she wasn't happy with going back to head housemaid again either. She was always better at the household tasks than curling hair or mending dresses, though, so she's in a better spot now."

"Do you think she's got her eye on your job, then?" Mrs. Patmore asked, thinking this topic a useful diversion.

"I don't know. And I wouldn't mind it she did," Elsie said firmly. "But that's a bit of a way off at the moment."

"Mr. Carson seems happy enough these days," Mrs. Patmore said hurriedly, before Mrs. Carson could steer the conversation back to the dinner party.

"He is." And Elsie could not contain a smile. "And I've reconciled myself to the fact that he's going to be tied up with the Crawleys all his days, one way or another," she added with a sigh.

"And you really _don't_ mind him having some young woman traipsing around after him, then?" Mrs. Patmore did wonder.

But this only evoked laughter from her friend. " _No_ ," she said emphatically. "What is it you think he's going to get up to?"

Mrs. Patmore didn't want to answer that. She didn't even want to think about it. She'd had an expected insight into Mr. Carson's intimate nature when she'd served as a reluctant go-between between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes prior to their marriage, and she never wanted to go there again. "They get up to all sorts, men," she said circumspectly.

Mrs. Carson was not troubled. "He gets on well with young women," she said. "And he can be a bit hard on young men, as any of the footmen will tell you. And he's an honourable man, my Mr. Carson," she added, not without pride. "As is Mr. Mason."

They had come to it.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Patmore agreed readily, but she was distracted. There it was again - that same sense of something not quite right that she'd experienced the other night.

"He is a _very_ nice man, Mr. Mason," Mrs. Carson went on, in a rather obvious vein. "I've not seen much of him. It was good to get to know him better."

"Oh, he's ... yes. He's very nice," Mrs. Patmore responded vaguely. "And, do you know, he's asked Daisy to call him 'Dad,' and she is. Her moving to the farm has made a real difference for him."

"He's very fortunate that way," Mrs. Carson agreed. "And so is Daisy. But there's much to be said for a companion of your own age. It's one of the things I appreciate most about Mr. Carson."

Again, Mrs. Patmore felt that jarring note. She'd had many opportunities to observe the Carsons over the years - Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes as they were then - and _companionable_ was not the first word that would have come to her mind about them. Theirs had not been quiet camaraderie so much as a compelling friction that had stoked a slow-burning and irresistible fire, no matter what Mrs. Carson might say about it now.

"He sent a nice note about the dinner, saying how much he enjoyed it," Mrs. Carson was saying, oblivious to her friend's discomfort. "Mr. Mason, that is. Perhaps we might do it again."

Mrs. Patmore could only manage a tepid reply to this that might well have raised Mrs. Carson's suspicions, but was saved the delivery of it by Daisy who put her head in the door.

"Excuse me," she said shortly, and not at all politely. "The man from Bakewells' is here and he's brought the wrong sugar _again_ , Mrs. Patmore. Only he doesn't believe _me_ , because what would _I_ know about such things. He's insisting you come before he takes it back." She didn't wait for Mrs. Patmore's response, but withdrew again as abruptly as she'd come.

This performance vexed Mrs. Patmore, although the temerity of the Bakewells' man set her teeth on edge, too. She heaved herself to her feet. "I'd better go."

Mrs. Carson was staring after Daisy. "She seems a bit out of sorts," she noted. "That can't be _just_ about the grocery order."

Mrs. Patmore was on the spot. She did not want to offer her own explanation for Daisy's attitude. As far as Mrs. Carson was concerned, the social evening at the cottage had gone well and the cook did not want to her to think otherwise, or to realize that Mrs. Patmore herself was not so convinced.

"I wonder if she's upset with Andy."

"Andy?" Mrs. Patmore was startled.

A thoughtful look descended on Mrs. Carson. "Mr. Barrow has had less patience of late with Andy going off to Yew Tree Farm all the time. And he's kept Andy's nose to the grindstone pretty firmly around here, too. Well, as he must, with still only one footman. Perhaps Daisy is irritated about that."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Patmore said quickly. "Possibly. I mean...that's certainly an idea." Her garrulousness drew a quizzical look from the other woman. Mrs. Patmore was known for her firm opinions and her lack of reticence in communicating them. This scattered manner was betraying her inner unease. "Right," she said more firmly. "I've got to give that fool delivery man what for." And with a more characteristic pugnacity, she marched out the door, hoping she had assuaged any of Mrs. Carson's suspicions.

 **Tom Downstairs**

Tom was the only person in the house, save perhaps for the butler in a different way, who moved fluidly between upstairs and downstairs. Alone among the family, he never rang for the staff. If he wanted to speak to the butler or the housekeeper or a footman, he went to them. And though he knew it violated protocol, sometimes he used the servants' entrance. Much had changed for him when he married Lady Sybil, but there were some things he refused to surrender.

It was, then, no surprise to Mrs. Patmore or Daisy when he came through the kitchen on Friday morning. As always he greeted them politely. Daisy, who was apparently at odds with the entire world, managed an almost civil grunt. Mrs. Patmore responded to him in kind - she'd always liked him - and then glanced disapprovingly at her assistant, although she said nothing.

"Is Barrow in?" Tom asked. He had started his life at Downton as the chauffeur and in that position had learned to address the then-butler as Mr. Carson. He had never lost that habit, even though Mr. Carson rolled his eyes at the mistake every time he did so. But Barrow was a different matter. He had been _Thomas_ before he had been promoted to under-butler and then butler. Tom had then conformed to the convention of calling the butler by his last name. Barrow would never get a "Mr." out of him.

"He is," Mrs. Patmore said and might have wondered what Mr. Branson wanted with the butler. They rarely communicated.

Before Tom reached the butler's pantry he was intercepted by the housekeeper stepping out of her sitting room. This was another friendly face and Tom did not let his concerns prevent him from greeting her, too, with a smile. She had been a stalwart supporter of his in both his downstairs and upstairs lives. He would have continued on past her, but she clearly had something to say.

"One of the maids told me she found glass on the carpet in your room the other morning."

He froze for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said hesitantly. "I tried to clean it up as best I could. I hope she didn't cut herself."

Mrs. Carson gave him a reassuring smile. "No. She saw the broken window pane and was careful. She did a thorough job of vacuuming and sweeping, so I'm certain it's taken care of. But I was wondering about you, Mr. Branson."

"Oh." He knew the question she was asking. _How did that happen_? "It was nothing," he said swiftly, hoping a casual manner would reassure her. He grinned ruefully. "I don't even want to tell you how I broke it. I was going to replace it right away, but the pane has to be specially cut."

"One of the estate workers could have taken care of that for you," she said helpfully.

"I'd rather not trouble them. I'm picking it up today. Thank you all the same."

And then he did slip away, not wanting to have to make up a lie about how the broken glass came to be _inside_ the room.

Barrow was at his desk and Andy seated across from him when Tom knocked. Both men got to their feet at the sight of him, Andy with alacrity, Barrow with a rather deliberate slowness.

"Mr. Branson. How may I help you?"

Neither Carson nor Barrow had taken kindly to Tom's social transformation. Nor had they ever taken pains to hide their disdain, although Mr. Carson's manner had softened over the years under the influence of the housekeeper. But there were still vestiges of resentment in Barrow's demeanour.

"I'll leave you." Andy turned to go, but Tom stopped him.

"I'm glad you're here. I've a question for both of you." He paused, thinking how to phrase it. He wanted to solicit information without conveying concern. "Have either of you seen any strangers around the house in recent weeks? Perhaps a young man, or a boy?"

They stared at him blankly.

"I've noticed some ... things ... out of place," he said cautiously.

"Inside the house? On the grounds?" Barrow asked, making an effort to be helpful. "Has something been stolen?"

"Outside. Around the garages, the agent's office. And no, not stolen. Just ... out of place."

Andy shook his head. "I haven't seen anyone I don't know, Mr. Branson, here or on my way to and from Yew Tree Farm."

"I haven't seen anyone about either," Barrow added.

"Well." It had been a long shot in any case. "Thank you."

"Would you like me to ask the staff when we're assembled for dinner?" the butler asked.

"No," Tom said quickly. "It's not that important. It was just a thought." He left, hoping he hadn't ignited Barrow's famous curiosity. At this moment, he didn't want anyone else looking into the matter.

 **Isobel, Dickie, and an Unwelcome Visitor**

"Still no butler, then."

Isobel had opened the door at Crawley House in response to a knock and found her husband's elder son standing there. Larry Grey was, she supposed, her stepson, but neither of them embraced that designation. Prior to his father's marriage, Larry, and with him his brother Tim, had addressed Isobel as 'Mrs. Crawley.' Now they called her nothing. Nor did either one of them attempt to conceal their ongoing contempt for her. Fortunately for all concerned, they saw one another rarely.

"Good morning, Larry." Isobel gave him a light, formal smile. She did not like Dickie's sons, the consequence of their abominable rudeness toward her, as well as their utter disregard for the happiness or well-being of their father. But there was something else, too. In some unacknowledged recess of her mind, Isobel resented the Grey boys. There they were, two very disagreeable men, living and hating and thriving, while her own golden boy, Matthew, lay cold and mouldering in Downton churchyard. It was unfair.

"How may I help you?" Isobel had adopted the practice, very early in life, of presenting a polite, if not always a pleasant demeanour, to those for whom she did not care.

Larry was not put off by Isobel's cool manner. He probably didn't even notice it. He always looked at her the same way, with one eyebrow arched in an expression of perpetual expectation that she was about to do something gauche.

"May I come in?"

She moved to one side and he slipped by her.

"No maid, either," he said, glancing about the entrance hall.

"Ellen has other work to attend to," Isobel said, and then was irked with herself for rising to his bait.

"Oh? Is she negotiating world peace in the drawing room?"

"No. But I think she may be dusting in there. May I help you?" she said again.

The look on Larry's face told her that he wouldn't ask her to throw him a line if he were drowning. "Is my father in?"

"Yes." Isobel went to fetch him, although not without some reservations about leaving Larry unattended. One never knew what mischief he might get up to when unsupervised.

Dickie said nothing when Isobel told him his son had looked in, only following her downstairs and into the sitting room.

The men exchanged perfunctory greetings. Theirs had always been a distant relationship, but since their falling out over Dickie's marriage and Larry's installation at Cavenham, the Merton estate, things had been decidedly cooler.

"I'll leave you to it," Isobel said, turning to go.

"I'd rather you didn't," Larry said unexpectedly.

Isobel and Dickie waited. They did not invite Larry to sit, nor did they sit themselves. They did not want to prolong his visit.

Larry's shoulders heaved as though he were about to embark on a distasteful task. "It troubles me deeply to have to bring this to your attention, Papa, but you appear to have no meaningful guidance in such matters from the usual quarters." His eyes flickered in Isobel's direction.

"Oh, good Lord, Larry! Spit it out and preferably without disparaging Isobel in the process!" Dickie was blessed with a remarkably even disposition. He'd never lost his temper toward Isobel and rarely even in her presence. But his sons had exhausted his almost inexhaustible supply of good will and he lapsed quickly into impatience with them.

His father's words had an effect. Or perhaps Larry himself preferred to get on with it.

"You've been neglecting your duties, father. Your _social_ duties. And though it pains me to have to point it out to you, _someone_ must."

"Meaning?" Isobel demanded, bristling a little, for she knew this was a not-so-thinly-disguised criticism of her.

"You cannot endlessly enjoy the hospitality of the county without reciprocating," he said bluntly and, as he spoke, his eyes did bore into Isobel. "There are _expectations_."

"Oh, what a lot of nonsense," Dickie said in exasperation.

"But it's not," Larry said simply, clearly, and icily.

" _You're_ the master of Cavenham, now," Dickie said forcefully.

"But _you_ are Lord Merton," Larry countered. "And shall continue to be so for a very long time, as no one could wish more earnestly than I, Papa." He gaze wandered about him to the attractive but relatively modest room in which they stood. "You're not properly equipped, of course, but the responsibilities remain nonetheless. You might," he said abruptly, turning to Isobel, "start with hiring an appropriate staff."

Dickie saw his son out and closed the door rather forcefully behind him. Then he strode to his wife's side and took one of her hands in both of his. "Isobel, I can only apologize once more for Larry's unbridled insolence. Should he have the temerity to darken our door again, just ... leave him on the doorstep."

The frown on Isobel's face dissolved before the warmth that welled up in her at her husband's solicitousness. He had never failed to take her part in the conflict with his sons, and though she had worried about coming between them, she did appreciate his unwaring support. She even laughed a little at his suggestion. The same thing had occurred to her. But then her attention returned to Larry's words.

"The thing is, Dickie, and it pains me very much to say so, but I think Larry may be right."

 **Mary and Violet**

Mary had never been one to make common cause with her sister, but when it came to Granny she was prepared to make an exception. Ever since Edith had raised concerns about their grandmother's health, Mary had been paying close attention and noted some unsettling developments. Granny was coming to Downton less often. She seemed more frail and was certainly quieter than usual. Granny had always had a quick wit, but this required following a conversation very closely and rapidly digesting information, things that took a lot of mental energy. This had once been second nature to Granny, but her pithy quips were, of late, few and far between.

It was time to make more direct inquiries and for that purpose Mary must see her alone. She would be formidable on her own ground at the Dower House, but it was a more discreet location. Mary did not know if her parents had, as yet, noticed what Edith had described as Granny's decline, but Mary wanted to assess the situation for herself before she troubled them with it.

She had a major challenge before her in approaching her grandmother. Though determined to find out what was going on, Mary knew that she had to do this in a manner that did not betray her own emotional turmoil at the idea of her grandmother in ill health. Granny reviled pity, as did Mary herself, and neither of them admitted to weakness easily. But Mary could not just ignore the matter. Granny was one of the pillars of her emotional life and she hoped that she could be as stalwart in support of her grandmother in return.

She came for tea and Violet was glad to see her. Of course the old woman loved them all. She had delighted in Sybil's high spirits, indulged Edith in unusually overt displays of warm affection, and enjoyed Mary's combativeness. But Mary knew, too, that she was the most like her grandmother and thought this gave them a special bond. She did not know all of her grandmother's secrets and hoped that Granny did not yet know all of hers either, but they each knew that the other _had_ secrets. It was part of what made their lives exciting.

"Good afternoon, Granny." Mary bent to kiss her grandmother.

"Mary." Violet leaned up into her granddaughter's embrace.

Spratt brought them tea and then left them alone. They chatted about inconsequential things until he did.

"You look as though you've got something on your mind." The door had hardly closed behind the butler. Granny was always shrewd.

Mary, in her turn, did not dissemble. "I'm worried about you."

"Why?" Violet appeared genuinely surprised.

Mary only looked at her.

Violet, in her turn, remained inscrutable.

"Are you well?" Mary asked bluntly.

Violet's face gave nothing away. "As well as anyone can expect to be at my age."

"Granny."

"Don't be cross with me, Mary. You've no idea what a burden age is. Growing old is not for the faint of heart."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Mary's face. "Then you are well-equipped to deal with it."

"Some days."

"Granny, I only want to know..."

"If I'm about to fall into my soup? Not quite yet." Violet spoke with equanimity.

"Is this why you're hurrying Carson on with the history of the family?"

"My dear, that isn't for me. It's for you. And for George, that he might know his family and his place in the world order." Some might have thought that Violet was stretching it a bit to assume that George Crawley would automatically operate on so broad a stage, but Violet had always been ambitious for her family.

It was a losing proposition to try to outflank Granny in a conversation, so Mary gave up. "You would tell us, wouldn't you, if there was anything we should know?" She hoped, rather than expected Violet to agree to this.

Violet gave a short laugh. "When have you known me _not_ to speak my mind?"

Well, that was true enough, but Granny was also fiercely proud, Mary knew. And capable of keeping secrets.

"But I am an old lady, Mary. Concern for me is misplaced. I've had my life. I'm worried about _you_."

"Me?" Granny had hit a nerve. But then she had always been discerning where Mary, especially, was concerned.

"Yes. How are ... things? You know, with you and Henry, and the children. With your life."

"Everything is just fine, Granny," Mary said smoothly, determined to emulate her grandmother's opacity. She smiled that full but insincere smile she reserved for necessary falsehoods.

Granny stared at her and Mary stared right back, though not with much hope. She had never been able to fool her grandmother.

Mary sighed. "I love Stephen, but motherhood ... at least when it involves infants ... bores me. I miss my work. I miss knowing and seeing for myself all the details of the estate. Papa doesn't tell me everything. I think he's getting revenge for the way I treated him last year. Am I a bad mother?"

Her question brought a smile to her grandmother's face. Mary knew it was because she appreciated her granddaughter's frankness.

"No, of course not. No one loves their children more than I do, Mary, but I confess the baby stage grated on my nerves, too."

Mary's frown gave way to a genuine smile this time. There were so few people with whom one could be oneself without having to apologize for it.

"But I am worried about you, my dear."

" _You're_ worried about _me_!"

"You have no friends," Violet said simply.

Mary was taken aback. She had not expected the conversation to take this turn. "I beg your pardon?" She said this a little hesitantly, not quite sure she had understood her grandmother properly.

"You have no friends." Violet enunciated quite clearly, leaving Mary with no room to doubt.

"Yes, I do."

"Female friends."

Mary hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Of course I do. Annabelle Portsmouth," she said promptly.

Her grandmother only stared at her. "I mean someone in whom you can confide, talk to about the truly important things in your life, trust implicitly. Not just someone who will cover up your misdemeanours," she said this with passion, but added that final bit rather tartly.

Mary thought about this for a moment and then surrendered to the truth. "The reality is, Granny, I've never gotten along with other girls or women. Witness Edith. Sybil was different and something might have grown there, but she was too young for most of our lives together and then she moved away. And the other side of it is that I _have_ always gotten along so well with men. My best friends were - _are_ \- men. Carson. Matthew. Tom."

"Not Henry?" her grandmother said quickly.

Mary shrugged. "Henry is my husband."

"So was Matthew."

"Yes. But we were friends, good friends, first." Mary felt that almost visceral pang of longing that struck her, even at this late date, when she thought of Matthew. She saw her grandmother watching her. "And anyway, I came over here to talk about you," she said firmly, trying to regain control of the conversation.

"There is nothing to say. My story is nearly done."

Although Granny's frankness was both characteristic and refreshing most of the time, plain-speaking on this subject unsettled Mary. "Don't talk like that," she said.

But Violet only shrugged. "I am old. That is the way old people talk."

But Granny had never talked like that before. Mary made one last attempt. "Granny, is there anything I can do?"

Her earnestness brought a smile back to the elderly woman's face and she held out a hand. Mary grasped it warmly, comforted by the strength and vitality in that grip.

"Find your way, my dear."

Mary had come to determine the truth about her grandmother's health and Violet had dissembled. Granny had probed her about her happiness, and Mary had deflected her. They parted dissatisfied. Neither had given much away, but now both were confirmed in the belief that the other had something to hide.

 **Charlie, Elsie, and the New Assistant**

Elsie had thought her husband might come to meet her at the end of the day, eager to impart the results of his afternoon interviews for the research assistant position. She was mildly disappointed when he did not appear, but easily brushed it off. It would give them something exciting to talk about at the dinner table. She was not as convinced as he was of the importance of a history of the Crawleys, but she enjoyed his enthusiasm and was glad he'd found a project that appealed to him. And as for a research assistant - well, it wouldn't hurt to have a fresh face around Downton either, someone lively who would keep Charlie on his toes and might perhaps befriend Daisy, who had spent too much of her life in the company of people old enough to be her parents. That young woman could use a friend her own age.

As she turned into the lane, Elsie's mind also flitted briefly to Mr. Branson. He might like to make out that he'd broken the window in his room, but if he had done so from the inside, the glass would have been outside. And surely he hadn't _accidentally_ thrown something at his own window from the lawn below. When Charlie had exhausted his tales of the aide he had hired, she would tell him about the strange conversation with Mr. Branson.

Even before she'd lifted the latch, she heard Shep's welcoming bark. He'd adapted quickly to her new schedule, coming to lie in wait for her on the other side of the door minutes before her arrival every evening - or so Charlie said. Dogs had an intuitive sense of time. Shep only ever barked once. She smiled at this familiar ritual. Charlie, alerted by this, because _he_ was no longer watching the clock for her, usually came then and met her at the door.

But he wasn't there today, although he was in the house. She could heard his voice. And laughter. Male laughter, and not just Charlie's either. It came from the sitting room. She followed the sounds to their source and found her husband ensconced in his chair by the grate, engaged in earnest conversation with a man she had never before seen.

He was a nice-looking fellow, about thirty or so, with dark brown hair and eyes to match, and a clean-shaven face. He was nattily attired in a good quality, well-fitting suit, and his shoes were highly polished. Elsie noted these things absently, her skills of observation honed over a lifetime's practice. Elsie had no idea who he was or why Charlie, who was usually so restrained with strangers, was so unbuttoned. Was this a long lost cousin? She couldn't countenance that.

The man saw Elsie first and leaped to his feet from the chair - her chair - where he had been sitting. At this movement, Charlie looked up, too, and then got up to greet her. Ordinarily they were both discreet before others, especially before people they did not know. But Charlie greeted her warmly with a "Hello, love," and a kiss on her cheek. Then he turned and swept his hand out toward the stranger in the room.

" _This_ ," he said, with the gravity of a profound announcement, "is Daniel Ryder. Mr. Ryder, this is my wife, Mrs. Carson."

Mr. Ryder came forward to shake her hand. Elsie submitted to this ritual unthinkingly, her mind engaged elsewhere.

"Mr. Ryder is my new assistant," Charlie went on.

Elsie was even more confused. "What happened to the woman from Swaledale?" she asked, not thinking how that would sound. "Or the other girl from London?"

The two men smiled. "Swaledale didn't work out," Charlie said. "Sweet girl, she was. But a bit silly. I couldn't have managed that. And Mr. Ryder is the applicant from London."

Elsie frowned. "You never said it was a man."

He looked pleased with himself for surprising her. "I didn't think it mattered."

And it didn't. Did it?

Well. Elsie recovered herself and turned toward Mr. Ryder more congenially. "I'm very pleased to meet you, then, Mr. Ryder."

He nodded and smiled, too. "It is my pleasure, Mrs. Carson."

It was all very pleasant, but Elsie was still bemused. Charlie saw this.

"Mr. Ryder and I have hit it off famously," he said eagerly. "We've been talking about history and politics and cricket and Yorkshire..."

"Are you from here then?" Elsie asked politely, even as she tried to study the man surreptitiously.

"No," he said. "Wheatley. In Oxfordshire. But I've heard a lot about the northern counties and wanted to see them."

"And you came from London. To work on this book." She tried, but she couldn't quite conceal her astonishment at this.

Mr. Ryder took no offense, although she wasn't sure Charlie was so indifferent to her manner. "I'm interested in historical research," the visitor said. "I've done it before."

"He worked at the Colonial Office," Charlie put in.

"I was at the bottom of the heap there," Mr. Ryder said modestly.

This was something to take in. Elsie remembered what time it was. "Have you had your tea?" she asked her husband.

"We have."

"Right, then I'll get dinner on." She turned to go.

"Ah." There was a note of remorse in Charlie's voice. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't do a thing. I was all caught up with Mr. Ryder here."

"I can see that. But it's no nevermind. Will you join us, Mr. Ryder?" She half-hoped he wouldn't. She needed time to digest this strange development.

"No. Thank you, Mrs. Carson. I've taken up enough of Mr. Carson's time today. I've taken a room at the Grantham Arms and I noticed that they have meals. I'll look for lodgings tomorrow."

This seemed curious to Elsie. "Don't you have to fetch your things from home?"

Mr. Ryder's genial manner seemed unshakable. He shook his head, still smiling. "I brought everything with me. I wasn't being presumptuous," he added hastily. "I had a good feeling about this position." He exchanged warm glances with Mr. Carson. "And ... if it hadn't worked out, I thought I'd look for other work in the area."

"What, exactly, do you do?"

"I've been a glorified clerk, really," Mr. Ryder said, in an unassuming way. "I did office work, answering letters, filing, making copies of important correspondence..."

"He's got a fine hand," Charlie said. "Very clear handwriting. That will be important in _this_ job."

"Hmm. Well, I don't know what else you'd find around here like that," Elsie mused.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Was there a note of irritation in Charlie's voice. "He's found this."

She didn't know why, but she persisted, speaking to the newcomer and avoiding meeting her husband's gaze.

"I hope Mr. Carson told you that there's only a modest remuneration for this work."

"He did. Modest remuneration plus meals."

"Really?" Now she did look at her husband.

"At Downton. I spoke with His Lordship about it last Monday."

She relented. "Well. Then you're all fixed up." She was, it seemed, the only one who was concerned about any of this.

"Right. I'll be off then."

"You might try the post office," Elsie said, as Mr. Ryder turned away. He paused and glanced back at her. "For lodgings," she explained. "They often post cards in the window for such things.'

"I will. Thank you. Tomorrow, Mr. Carson."

"Tomorrow?" Again Elsie looked to her husband.

"I'm going to take Mr. Ryder to the Abbey and around the estate. Familiarize him with the area, show him where he's going to be working."

As Charlie saw the man out, Elsie went upstairs to change. Changing before dinner, just like the posh people. She never used to bother, but now, with longer evenings at home, she wanted to wear a nicer dress. It was a step into her other identity, as mistress of her own house and as a wife.

They met up again in the kitchen and before she could even think about what to do next, Charlie had taken her in his arms and they properly kissed. She couldn't help smiling against his lips. She'd gone all her life without and not missed it, not that she'd known anyway. And now she couldn't imagine how she'd managed.

As she set about peeling vegetables and he stirred the fire under the burners, Charlie returned to the subject of his new assistant.

"He did two years at Cambridge before the war. He volunteered right at the start of it and served for the duration, most of it in _Palestine_. He knew Lord Rosebery's son, the one who got killed there. Anyway Daniel ... ah, Mr. Ryder, got into the Colonial Office after the war."

"And he quit that to come here?"

Charlie came over to her. "Why're you being so difficult about him?"

"I'm not," she said, brushing him off. "I'm interested. Go on."

He did not appear wholly convinced. "Well, he's a ... Liberal, after all. We've agreed not to talk politics. And while the _Labour_ government tolerated outsiders, the Conservatives have been making a clean sweep of the departments since they got back in. So he's been at loose ends."

"Hmm."

"Elsie." His hand came down on hers, stilling the chopping she was doing. "What is it?" When she said nothing, he went on. "He's _perfect_."

She looked up at him. "He's _too_ perfect, really. I can't seem him staying through the winter up here, not on a small project like this one."

He drew himself up rigidly and she hastened to placate him.

"I'm not putting down your book. I'm glad you have it. I know how important it is to you. _And_ to the family. But Charlie, why is a man in the prime of his working life and with his background content to hole up in some remote corner of Yorkshire to _assist_ in the writing of a book? No doubt he could write one himself, with his background."

Charlie's great brows came together in a concerned look. "What are you saying?"

She didn't know, really. "Only that family histories aren't all triumphs and achievements. There are skeletons in closets. And some of them are Turkish diplomats."

"Elsie!"

It was a fraught subject between them and she brought it up only rarely, and now wished she hadn't for it distracted him from the point.

"There are matters that require discretion," she went on hastily. "You want to look carefully into why a man like _him_ has applied for such a job. That's all. There has to be some reason that he's left _London_ to come to _Yorkshire_. And it'll be more than that he wants to look at the scenery."

Charlie was silent for a long moment. "I'm no dilettante when it comes to assessing people for hiring, Elsie. His circumstances may be ... odd..., but ... I like him, Elsie. I like him a lot."

Well, she had known that from the first instant she'd seen them together. So she yielded and patted his arm in a soothing way. "Then I hope he's all you're expecting from him," she said, with a disarming smile. "Now, I must get dinner on."

 **John and Anna**

The Bates' sitting room was sparely furnished. Lady Mary had encouraged them to take what they might like from the Downton attic, but they hadn't even looked there. Without saying so to each other, they had agreed that everything except the cottage itself would be theirs through purchase or inheritance, not that they had much leeway with either. They'd brought a few things from the London house John's mother had lived in for years and which came to him on her death. Everything else they'd picked up locally. So there was John's chair by the fire and a small sofa, where Anna usually sat, and a small desk that had come from London. It would have been years before they'd bought a desk, a piece of furniture to be used only to write the occasional cheque, and they could have done that at the kitchen table.

This night John was writing more than a cheque or two. He was scribbling away at a letter when Anna went up to put the baby to bed and was still at it when she came down. She glanced over at him as she took her place on the sofa and then began to fold the laundry that sat in the basket beside her.

"You're very busy tonight," she said, looking over at him again, at his head bent over the paper before him. Another kind of woman might have gone over and tried to get a glimpse of his work while stroking his neck or rubbing his shoulder. But Anna was not like that. They respected each other's privacy. She might ask, but she would not pry.

He knew she was curious, as well she might be. He wrote few letters. Finding himself at a natural pause, he straightened up in his chair, stretched a bit, and then twisted to look at her. He could not help but smile when his eyes lit on her. _This_ was how it should be, he thought, how it _should_ have been all along. Not all those trials - literally, and those dead bodies flung across their path. A quiet family life was all that he desired and all that Anna deserved, and it was theirs. Finally. Perhaps there were still some adjustments to make in the shape that life would take, but at last they were going in the right direction.

"What do we know about Mr. Spratt?" he asked suddenly.

He had taken her by surprise. "Mr. Spratt! Where did that come from?"

"Oh, I saw him in passing the other day," he replied, not untruthfully. "He's so ... abrupt. Rude, almost."

Anna thought for a moment. She was ever willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt. "Well, he's been with the Dowager since the end of the war. I think he comes from Liverpool area. Lady Mary said something about that once. And Miss Denker says he writes the 'agony aunt' column for Lady Hexham's magazine. But that sounds farfetched, even for Miss Denker." They both laughed at that.

"I've heard that rumour. Much easier to see Molesley a schoolteacher or Mr. Barrow as the butler of Downton Abbey, than Spratt dispensing advice to the lovelorn," John mused, agreeing. "Do women really enjoy reading that kind of thing?" He seemed sincerely bemused.

"Yes," Anna said promptly. "It's fun to read. And you learn things. Sometimes you can ask a stranger something you wouldn't ask your mother or a friend."

"I think Mr. Spratt writes them himself," John said drily.

Anna frowned thoughtfully. "He wouldn't do that!"

"Wouldn't he." John. He signed the letter he'd written and then carefully folded it, inserted it in a blank envelope, and tucked it into his pocket. Ordinary business letters or notes to the few of his army buddies with whom he remained in contact he usually left on the desk itself until he was going to the post office. But he could not afford to leave a communication of the sensitivity of this one lying out so casually. He kept a locked box in the bedroom for such things.

Anna noticed. "What are you up to, John?" Her voice was casual, but he discerned a note of concern in it as well. She did not like it when they kept secrets from each other.

He knew what she meant, but his mind was on other things. He pushed himself out of the chair and, forgoing his cane for the desk edge, made his way over to the sofa where he half-sat, half fell onto the arm beside her.

"You are the loveliest woman I have ever set eyes upon," he crooned, running a hand through her hair.

"Don't think I don't recognize a dodge when I see one, John Bates," Anna said knowingly, even as she leaned into his hand. "Can you tell me that whatever it is you're writing won't disrupt our lives?"

He smiled reassuringly. "It won't disrupt our lives," he said in a deadpan tone, although he felt he ought to have placed emphasis on _our_. "Now may I compliment my wife?"

She dropped the towel she'd been folding and turned so that she could slide an arm about his waist. "Just because I think it's a cover for an answer you don't want to give doesn't mean the compliment is unwelcome." He leaned down to her.

Their lips had but met when a wail went up from the room above them.

John sighed and relaxed his hold on her. Anna smiled and reluctantly stood up.

"I think Robbie is doomed to be an only child," John grumbled good-naturedly. "So much for my dream of 'children all around us.'"

Anna bent to give him a quick kiss. "I wouldn't give up on that dream _quite_ yet, John Bates," she murmured, as her lips brushed his cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can."


	12. Chapter 12

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **Episode 4. Chapter 2.**

 **Violet and Isobel**

Isobel had come round for tea, and though Violet was very glad to see her, she was not inclined to make things easy for her friend.

"So you've come to see if I'm still alive, have you?" she said, as Isobel swept into the room. Violet saw Spratt smiling discreetly as he withdrew. He was an odd man in some ways and one could not rely on him as one could Carson - without reservation - but he did appreciate her sense of humour. Or perhaps it was only that, like many in the servant ranks, he liked to see the middle classes set down.

Isobel was not put off by this greeting. The barbs of her dear relative, by turns amusing or withering, glanced off of her. "Oh, I knew you were still with us," she said gaily. "It would have been in the papers otherwise. How are you, Cousin Violet?"

Violet was wary of people with relentlessly cheerful dispositions, but she'd gotten used to this aspect of Isobel's character. "I'm very busy," she said. "So much to do, so little time. How is Dickie?" She almost regretted asking this when she saw the glow that enveloped Isobel.

"He is delightful!"

The effervescence of her response made Violet shudder a little. It was quite acceptable to love one's spouse passionately, but it was not at all appropriate to show it. "A damning description of any man," she murmured. "You've been very socially active, I hear."

Isobel had settled herself in the armchair across from Violet's. "And your spy network is in good order, I see. I'd not realized Dickie had such a large social circle," she admitted.

"He _is_ Lord Merton," Violet said emphatically, and then shook her head at Isobel's obtuseness.

"We've got to reciprocate sometime," Isobel went on, seeing no need to relate Larry's prompt on this subject, though the whole problem had been weighing on her more heavily since the conversation yesterday morning. "So I suppose that means a grand dinner. It's only just occurred to me that I've never put on a grand dinner in my years at Downton. Oh, I've entertained you..."

"And that doesn't count, I suppose."

"...and Cora and the girls. And I've occasionally had a friend round, but nothing really grand. I'm a bit daunted by that."

Violet blinked at this. A world war, an influenza epidemic, and the death of a child had failed to daunt Isobel. "Fortunately, help is at hand," she said smoothly. She reached for the copy of _The Sketch_ that Edith had insisted she take home and that she had, in fact, carefully perused, and held it out to Isobel who took it, puzzled. "Read Carson's article in Edith's magazine. He tells you everything you need to know."

Isobel glanced at the cover and then placed the magazine atop her voluminous bag. "Perhaps I should just hire Carson," she said.

"He is otherwise engaged at present," Violet said. "He's writing a history of the Crawley family."

"Ah, yes." Isobel remembered the project. "Starting with you, no doubt."

"Of course." Violet stared at her guest, oblivious to the slight sarcasm in Isobel's voice.

"Well, he always knew which side his bread was buttered on. Perhaps you could give me a few tips, Cousin Violet."

Violet made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "There's nothing to it. You sit down with your cook and plan a menu. Then you give the guest list to your butler and he arranges everything else. All you have to do is write the invitations. Your maid or butler will even mail them for you. Of course, a guest list can be a challenge in itself. You want to make sure there are no feuds among the invitees. And try to avoid the serious drunks, unless you are deeply obligated to them socially. A grand party is too much of a temptation and there's nearly always a scene. And make sure that the numbers balance. Left to their own devices, the individual sexes soon lapse into mundane matters of interest only to themselves." Violet managed this litany without pause. Then she drew breath again and reached for her tea.

"Goodness!" Isobel exclaimed. "But I haven't got a butler."

"Yes. Why is that?"

To Isobel this was self-evident. "Well, who needs one?"

"You, apparently," Violet said, with a little laugh.

"Rarely."

"Yes, but when they are necessary, they are absolutely indispensable."

There was a moment of silence.

"Could I borrow Spratt?"

Violet's brows rose in astonishment. "I am surprised at you. A butler is not a book or an item of clothing - things, I understand, that are borrowed among the more vulgar classes. A butler is a person..."

"That's a revelation, coming from you," Isobel said acidly.

"...and cannot be passed about. He may be a servant, but he is not chattel." Violet sounded almost indignant, but it was lost on Isobel. "Besides," Violet added, "even if I could spare him, which I cannot, he has a consuming past-time that fills his few hours of leisure."

"Stamp-collecting?" Isobel ventured sceptically.

Violet frowned thoughtfully. "I think he does that, too. But no, I am not at liberty to disclose his secondary preoccupation."

"Admirable restraint."

"I know how to keep a secret." It was a characteristic of which Violet was very proud.

Isobel sighed. "You seem determined to prevent me from finding the assistance you tell me that I absolutely must have."

"It's not _me_ ," Violet declared. "It's _them_. They have busy lives. And you're at least partially to blame for that."

"Me?"

"Yes. All this encouragement to every individual to live their lives to the fullest and develop their potential. Carson gets married. Spratt finds an outlet for an obscure talent. When they pursue their own interests, they become less useful, _and_ less obliging, as servants."

"How do you keep your servants?" Isobel asked in a wondering tone, her eyes round.

Violet knew exactly what Isobel was implying and ignored it. "I value the work they do and I let them know it," she said smugly.

Isobel didn't bother to comment on this. "There's always Molesley, I suppose. I could ask him."

"You could," Violet drawled. "But he's moved on as well."

This was too much for Isobel. "Am I doomed to defeat, then?" She spoke with some exasperation.

"I don't know. But whether you are or not will reflect on how successful you've been."

"I beg your pardon?"

"At breaking out of your middle-class origins, my dear," Violet said. "Succeed and you will demonstrate that you have _arrived_ , that the mantle of Lady Merton is legitimately yours. Fail and you prove Larry Grey right."

The spectre of her husband's son shaking his head in that patronizing way, steeled Isobel's resolve. "Then I must not fail!"

"That's the spirit!" Violet said encouragingly. She had begun to wonder if Isobel could surmount the middle-class tendency to defeatism. But she had confidence in her cousin. Isobel was, if nothing else, tenacious. She would not fail for lack of trying.

"Tell me, Cousin Violet, what have you been up to?"

Violet gestured toward her desk, upon which her writing materials were neatly arrayed. "I have been writing letters."

"Renewing old acquaintances?" Isobel asked mischievously.

"Tightening existing bonds," Violet replied, disregarding the insinuation. No doubt Isobel would be looking for a letter on its way to Paris. "There are things I have let lapse over the years. I'm trying to mend them." She sighed. "A good letter is an exhausting proposition. So much easier to have a conversation and be done with it. But letters last. And that is what I seek with my letters - a lasting impact."

A slightly concerned look came over Isobel, but she shook it off and smiled, if a little uncertainly. "That sounds very ambitious."

"Yes," Violet agreed. "It is."

 **Thomas, Carson, and Daniel Ryder**

The butler of Downton Abbey emerged from the dining room to find a stranger standing in the middle of the Great Hall. Thomas hadn't heard the door so he thought the man must have come in with a member of the family and yet he was alone. He was certainly at his ease, looking about with a quiet curiosity. His gaze focused immediately on the butler as Thomas made his way across the hall.

"May I help you?" Thomas asked formally. Even as he spoke, he was rapidly cataloguing observable information. The stranger was perhaps a little younger than Lady Mary (and Thomas himself), well dressed, and exuding an air of quiet confidence.

The man advanced toward him. "I'm waiting for Mr. Carson. He's in with Lord Grantham." He indicated the library doors.

Thomas nodded, still looking the fellow over. "And you are?"

With a smile, the man held out a hand. "Daniel Ryder. I'm going to be working with Mr. Carson. On the history of the family."

"Hmm." Thomas shook the proffered hand.

"You're Mr. Barrow."

That startled Thomas a little, though he did not react.

"Mr. Carson has mentioned you," Ryder said, by way of explanation.

"Has he."

A few seconds ticked by. "Mostly favourably," Ryder added. And then he laughed. It was a good-spirited, friendly laugh. "I jest, Mr. Barrow. Mr. Carson has spoken of you only in good terms. He was anxious for us to meet."

"Really." Thomas was perplexed. He knew Mr. Carson was hiring an assistant, but had been expecting a woman, like the secretary Lady Hexham had employed to help him with his article for _The Sketch_. Nowhere in his imagination - not that he had given it much thought at all - had Thomas thought Mr. Carson would hire a man, let alone someone this old.

"Ah. You've met."

They both turned as the former butler emerged from the library. Carson came to stand beside Daniel Ryder, exerting an almost proprietorial air. "We were coming to see you, Mr. Barrow."

At Thomas's inquiring look, Carson went on. "Mr. Ryder is going to work with me on the historical project Her Ladyship the Dowager has commissioned. He'll be working in the library here, doing research and writing up notes." Carson glanced momentarily at Ryder. "His Lordship has said you may use the small library." Then he turned back to Thomas. "Mr. Ryder will also be cataloguing the art work and other valuable pieces in His Lordship's collection. That," he told his assistant, "was Mr. Barrow's idea."

Thomas had suggested that Mr. Carson, who knew so much about every aspect of the house, create some kind of annotated inventory in the event that the Crawleys ever again opened their house to the public. The family's limited awareness of the treasures with which they lived had proved embarrassing on such an occasion a year earlier. ***** But Thomas had not really expected anything to come of his off-hand remark.

"We must request your cooperation in this, Mr. Barrow."

"In what way, Mr. Carson?"

"Mr. Ryder will be able to operate fairly unobtrusively on the main floor, but when it comes time to examine the art and other items on the gallery and in the upstairs rooms, it would be well if you or one of your footmen could ensure that he does not intrude on the family's privacy."

 _Oh, good. Another job._ Thomas nodded indifferently. "I shall do my best, Mr. Carson. I've yet to find an appropriate candidate for second footman," he added.

"Service isn't the business it used to be," Carson said to his assistant. " _And_ Mr. Ryder will be taking meals with the staff, lunch and tea, at least, on a regular basis. Perhaps we could go downstairs and show him around there," he suggested to Thomas. If Mr. Carson noted the startled look in Thomas's eye at this additional revelation, he said nothing about it.

Shaking his head slightly, Thomas led the way to the green baize door. Mr. Carson went ahead. The two younger men descended together.

"Are you really here to work on this project?" Thomas couldn't believe that such a professional-looking man had taken the job.

"Yes," Ryder said, with evident sincerity. "I fancy being an historian. And I like Yorkshire."

Thomas couldn't fathom it.

"Where are you staying?" he asked, feigning casual interest and wondering if the servants' quarters on the top floor, with many empty rooms, had been offered along with the small library.

"I've got a room in the village," Ryder said brightly. "I was making inquiries at the post office, and the man behind me in line - he's a schoolteacher - offered me lodging in his cottage."

"Mr. Molesley?" Thomas was more than surprised.

"Yes! That's him. He's quite a nice fellow. Do you know him?"

Thomas gave the man a frozen smile. "Oh, yes." Carson's assistant and Molesley's lodger. So far as Thomas could see, Daniel Ryder had nothing to redeem him at all.

When they reached the servants' level, Mr. Carson disappeared into the housekeeper's sitting room, "Just for a moment," he said.

"He'll do that," Thomas said drily.

"I've met Mrs. Carson," Ryder said, oblivious to or simply ignoring the attitude in Thomas's tone.

They went into the kitchen, where Thomas introduced Daniel Ryder to Mrs. Patmore and Daisy.

"Goodness!" Mrs. Patmore said, staring.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Patmore?" Thomas asked peremptorily. She'd nearly had a heart attack at the sight of Erich Miller, and now she was gaping at Mr. Ryder. It was as if she'd never seen a good-looking man in Downton's kitchens.

Mrs. Patmore addressed herself to Mr. Ryder. "You're not a woman!"

He held out his hands. "As you see," he said genially, not put out by the strange remark.

The cook recovered herself. "Only I thought Mr. Carson was looking for a young woman to help him in his history writing."

"He was. Well, he was looking for some help," Ryder amended. "And he thought I fit the bill."

Mrs. Patmore may have mumbled something as she turned away, something like, "You'd fit anyone's bill," but the others affected deafness.

"Mr. Ryder will be taking meals with the staff," Thomas said, smoothing over this awkward moment. "He'll be working in the small library, for the most part, so we'll see a lot of him." Thomas spoke dispassionately. Ryder seemed an affable sort, but Mr. Carson was not so long gone from Downton Abbey and now he had planted a spy to watch over things for him. Of course, he still had Mrs. Carson as well, but Thomas was used to her and she was beginning to shorten her hours. Now there would be this extra pair of eyes to maintain the old butler's oversight.

Daisy said "Hello," and then went back to her work preparing vegetables. Thomas did wonder about that. He wasn't convinced that there was anything serious between her and Andy. If he was right about that, then her lack of curiosity was odd. Daniel Ryder, for all that he had taken such a low-level job, was a cut above. Daisy ought to have noticed.

Mr. Carson came through then, but before he could join them, Mrs. Patmore drew him aside.

"Is there much sport around Downton?"

The question caught Thomas a little off-guard. "The family hosts an annual fox hunt," he said, scrambling. "And they attend the occasional horse race."

"I meant for regular folk," Ryder said, with an easy smile. "Any cricket?"

"Oh. Yeah. There are some local teams."

Ryder's eyes sparkled at this. "That's grand!"

Then Mr. Carson returned and that was the end of that. They left, with the older man chatting animatedly about Downton and Daniel Ryder listening attentively.

So Ryder wasn't a dead loss, then, Thomas mused. He hadn't been to a cricket match this year, apart from the annual competition between the house and the village. (He'd been the star performer for Downton Abbey. Again.) The possibility of discussing sports with someone other than the hallboy was a welcome prospect.

Thomas headed for the butler's pantry. What was he thinking about cricket matches for? He had work to do. For reasons he could not fathom, he glanced into the housekeeper's sitting room on the way past and then stopped abruptly. Mrs. Carson was sitting at her desk, but the expression on her face gave him pause.

"Mrs. Carson?"

Her eyes came up to his and the look - was it worry? - disappeared. "Mr. Barrow."

"Is there something amiss?" He could ask such questions now, legitimately, in his position as butler, though he hardly expected her to respond.

"You've met Mr. Ryder then," she said, without inflection.

"Yes."

"And what do you think of him?"

He stared into her eyes for a moment, puzzling over what it is was she wanted him to say. "We've only had a few words. He seems nice enough."

"Oh, he's very nice," she agreed, but in a way that almost undermined her words. "He's come from London for this job," she went on. "He's been working in the Colonial Office. And he went to Cambridge, for a while, before the war." She said all this in a neutral tone, but her gaze remained fixed on Thomas.

He absorbed these facts. Mrs. Carson was rarely forthcoming with him. He usually found it almost impossible to prise any information from her. This surprising confidence was, he was certain, quite deliberate.

"Mr. Carson is very fortunate in securing Mr. Ryder's services then," he said carefully.

"Yes. Very fortunate."

Thomas withdrew to the pantry in a thoughtful reverie. So Mrs. Carson was suspicious of Mr. Ryder, despite his easy-going manner _and_ her husband's apparent enthusiasm.

Well. He might just have to look into this Daniel Ryder fellow. _If_ \- his eyes swept the list of tasks neatly entered in his diary - he ever got his head above water around here.

 **Tom and Henry**

On Sunday afternoon, Tom and Henry took Sybbie and George along to inspect the agent's cottage. The estate workers had been hard at it and the smell of fresh paint greeted them as they came through the door. The children darted off through the empty rooms.

"Don't touch anything," Henry called after them.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Tom said lightly. "This is going to be a house people live in, not a museum. When I was growing up, my parents were happy to get through a day when one or another of us hadn't put a hole through a wall or something."

They both laughed at that.

"Have your parents ever been here?" Henry asked.

"No." Tom glanced at the other man and rolled his eyes. "Can you see it? One of my brothers came once. Kieran. He's Sybbie's godfather and he came for her christening. That was quite enough."

"Do you think you'll have them over once..." Henry let his sentence drop but gave Tom an inquiring look.

But Tom could only shrug. "It would be quite an expensive undertaking for them, though I could pay, of course. If my dad would let me. They've not seen Sybbie."

"Ever?!" Henry was shocked at this. His parents resided in London so they did not have the opportunity to see their grandson every day, as the Crawleys did. But they'd come for his christening and Henry and Mary had taken Stephen to London to see them.

"They've not been here and I can't go there," Tom said quietly. "Old business," he added, seeing Henry's puzzled look. "I wanted my daughter to be an Irish Catholic and she's never seen her homeland. And won't until she can go there herself."

Perhaps Henry discerned the sorrow Tom felt about this fact, for he changed the topic.

"What about that other ... problem?"

Tom didn't ask him to be more specific. He'd expected Henry to bring this up and he was ready for it. "Just kids," he said dismissively. "I've stopped worrying about it."

"Has anything else happened?"

"Not recently." That was not the truth, of course, but if Tom told Henry about the rock through his window he knew Henry would pressure him to report the incident to the constable. And probably to tell Robert, at least, and possibly Mary and Cora as well. Doing so would, no doubt, delay the move to the agent's cottage, which Tom did not want to do. Sybbie would be starting school on the first of September and he wanted her settled in their own home before then.

And though the latest incident had unsettled him, he'd convinced himself it wasn't as serious as he'd thought at first. A careful review of his own history in the Downton area had suggested no likely enemies. There was Larry Grey, to be sure. They had clashed at two dinners at Downton and the toff's contempt for him was well known. But Larry Grey seemed to be contemptuous of a lot of people, including his own father's wife, Lady Merton. While Tom could see the man stooping to childish pranks - he had, after all, put some kind of drug into Tom's drink at one dinner party Tom would rather forget - he could not imagine Larry Grey soiling his patrician hands with cow dung. And if all the pranks were related, then surely Larry must be eliminated as a suspect.

The cow patty incident was the critical one. It was such a childish thing to do. On that basis, Tom had concluded that it was the work of some kid. He still wanted to find out who it was, but he had pushed from his mind more serious concerns.

"How was the service this morning?" Henry asked.

Tom didn't understand for a moment. "Oh. Mass." He shrugged. "You know priests. Clergymen. I haven't been to Mass properly in ages and it's still the same thing I heard growing up. Nothing's changed there. But I'm glad to be going with Sybbie."

"And how's she taking the idea of moving in here?" As he spoke, Henry glanced about wistfully. Tom noticed. Though Henry had not said anything about it, Tom could read his thoughts for he had shared them. It _was_ difficult to live with one's in-laws, even in a large house.

On cue, the children raced into the front hall and up the stairs. Tom grinned after them. "I think she's all right with it," he said. "Where's Mary this afternoon?" he asked, shifting the conversation.

Henry wasn't expressive at the best of times, but now his face took on a blank look. "She's visiting Carson."

"Hmm." Tom said nothing.

"They like their butlers, the Crawleys," Henry went on.

"How do you mean?"

"Mary and Carson. _Robert_ and Carson. George and Barrow."

Even though he could hear the note of bemusement, perhaps even of dismay, in Henry's voice, Tom could not completely suppress a smile at this. It was true. He supposed he could understand Robert's attachment to Carson, for the two men shared a unique and abiding passion for Downton Abbey. Tom could only shake his head at the focus of their obsession, even as he appreciated the fact of their communion over it. He had long ago accepted the reality of Mary's affection for Carson - it just _was_ and it had done her good. And then there was Barrow and George. Mary encouraged their friendship, seeing in it a mirror of her own childhood association with Carson. Barrow's consideration of the young Crawley heir surprised Tom, given that Barrow seemed indifferent to everyone else. But there was no denying the mutual affection that existed between the butler and the boy.

"If she needs to talk to Carson, I _must_ be in trouble," Henry said abruptly.

"Oh, I don't think so," Tom said reassuringly. And then added, "Are you? In trouble, that is?"

Henry shrugged. "We've had some rough spots lately." He glanced at Tom. "Has she said anything to you?"

"No." Though Henry clearly thought otherwise, Tom was relieved to hear of Mary's plans. He knew she needed to talk to someone and whatever Tom, or anyone else, thought about it, Mary relied on Carson.

"Daddy!" Sybbie stormed down the stairs. "Will George sleep in my room? Or can he have a room of his own?"

Tom leaned down and swept his laughing daughter into his arms. "George isn't moving in with us," he reminded her. " _But_ he can sleep over any night he wants, if there isn't school the next day. And he can sleep _wherever_ he wants."

Tom and Sybbie had a close relationship, fostered by the great gap Sybil's death had made in their lives and heightened by the several months they had spent together on their American adventure. They shared, too, a love of laughter. So now Sybbie stared at her father with her eyes round in mock astonishment.

" _Even_ in the coal cellar?" she gasped.

" _Even_ in the coal cellar!" Tom declared. And then he leaned in close to her. "Though we'd best not tell Aunt Mary or Donk about that!"

They both roared with laughter and even Henry, distracted, smiled at this outburst. "Where is George?" he asked.

Sybbie wriggled out of her father's arms and eagerly held out a hand to her uncle. "Come on! I'll show you!"

The two men exchanged amused glances. Henry took Sybbie's hand and they followed her to the stairs.

 **Mary and Carson**

Carson washed up the few dishes he'd used for lunch, taking care not to trust too much to his unreliable hand. Elsie had shorter hours now, but she still worked seven days of the week, with a halfday on Tuesday. He'd gotten much better at filling the empty hours. Indeed, he had begun to welcome days uncluttered by the myriad tasks that had occupied him as the butler of Downton Abbey. More recently, he had focused on how he would go about the work of a formal history of the Crawley family. And over the past two days, his mind had been quite taken up with his new assistant. Putting away the last dish, he thought perhaps he would walk down to the village and see how Mr. Ryder was settling in with Mr. Molesley. _Imagine Molesley offering him lodging_! He ought perhaps to give the young man a day's rest before they began their work in earnest tomorrow, but ... Carson felt an inexplicable tug where Daniel Ryder was concerned. The young man had charmed him. Before he could act on this impulse, however, there was a knock at the door and when he opened it, any consideration of Daniel Ryder immediately disappeared.

Carson was surprised to see Lady Mary there. They had seen less of each other since his retirement because he was not at Downton every day. They still had their quiet moments together, though these, too, were less frequent. She was very busy and he had a different life, as well. But their ties remained strong. She had asked him to serve as one of Master Stephen's godfathers, an honour conventionally bestowed upon friends and acquaintances who were social equals or betters. Butlers did not usually get a look in. He had resisted and she had insisted and the christening had been one of the highlights of the treasured moments he had shared with Lady Mary over the years. ******

His heart had overflowed with love for her almost from the first moment of their acquaintance, some thirty-five years ago. That being the case, her appearance at the cottage this Sunday afternoon might have been unheralded, but it was not unwelcome. He greeted her warmly and the smile that swept her countenance in response was the genuine article. He was one of the few on whom it was frequently bestowed.

"Lady Mary! Come in!"

She had been to the Carsons' cottage before. Indeed, she had made the arrangements for them to get this specific dwelling and had personally overseen its refurbishment to ensure that it met the standards she demanded for Carson and his wife. And she'd been by a few times since he'd retired, once with Master George. Carson liked to see the boy. Master George was Lady Mary's son and as such held a special place in Carson's heart. But no child would ever rival Lady Mary in his affections and the time they spent together alone was special to him.

She had stepped into the passage but, sensing a reluctance on her part to come any further, he looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"Why don't we go for a walk?" she said cheerfully. "I know how much you enjoy your walks with His Lordship."

Carson was certainly amenable to this suggestion, but... "I didn't know that you were much of a walker, my lady."

"I'm not," she said. "Perhaps I ought to do more of it."

Carson did not have to summon the dog. Shep had barked to announce that someone was at the door and had been standing to one side, his great feathery tail swishing the air, waiting to see what was going to happen next. The collie happily followed Lady Mary out the door again and trotted up the lane in anticipation of them. Lady Mary noticed.

"He knows the way."

"He does."

They let Shep guide them. It was a lovely, sunny day in mid-August, with a bit of a breeze.

"How are you getting on?" Mary asked

"I am well, my lady." He smiled to himself at her query. For so long he had asked the questions and she had regaled him with the details of her life. She had known much less about him. Well, what child sees beyond the reach of his or her own experience? But in more recent years, their relationship had become more even. Not _completely_ even, but certainly less _uneven_. As an adult, she took an interest in his welfare.

"You seem in a better place of late," she observed, glancing at him.

He had been depressed when he first retired. He'd worked at Downton Abbey since he was a boy and to be cut adrift from it was a shock. "I've adjusted," he said. "I was used to being very busy. It's more difficult than it appears to do _less_."

Lady Mary tossed her head. "I know about that. I rail against the enforced quietude of motherhood."

He smiled indulgently at her. She had always had so much energy. "I've had to change direction," he went on. "Learn to lead a different kind of life."

"Becoming a writer, you mean," she said. "I've read your piece in _The Sketch_. It was very good."

He beamed at the praise, not least because he suspected it was the first time she'd looked at Lady Hexham's magazine. The rivalry between the two sisters was an old one. "I enjoyed the work."

"And now my grandmother has you working on the family history. How is that coming on?"

It was a subject about which he could hardly contain his excitement. "I've only just hired an assistant, on Her Ladyship the Dowager's direction." He told her about Daniel Ryder. "We're to begin in earnest tomorrow. Mr. Ryder will work on the larger historical story while I read and organize the family papers." He didn't burden her with too many details. Lady Mary had encouraged him to take up the project and would likely be pleased with the finished product, but she'd never been one to dwell on the past.

"And how is married life?" She asked this with mischief in her eye, but he took her query in stride.

"I am very happy, my lady."

"I'm glad for you."

The smile on her face suddenly became a fixed, artificial one and he noticed. They had never gotten on well, Elsie and Lady Mary, though for his sake they'd both made concessions where the other was concerned. When the silence between them lengthened, he wondered if there was some residual resentment on Lady Mary's part. This would have troubled him.

"I hope you don't mind, Carson," Lady Mary said at last, "but I've come to ask your advice about something."

This was unexpected but, like her appearance at the cottage, not unwelcome. He had often served her in this capacity over the years. "If I can help, my lady, I will. You know that." And she did.

"It may be presumptuous of me to impose on you..."

"Not at all," he said firmly. Indeed, he felt on solid ground with such a request and he stood taller for her reliance upon him.

She glanced at him with the shadow of a smile. "I've always been able to talk to you."

He nodded encouragingly.

"You won't like it," she said in warning, sobering again. She paused once more and then took a deep breath. "It's about Mr. Talbot."

They had been strolling at a leisurely pace on one of the gravelled paths that criss-crossed the estate. Carson and Shep were familiar with them all from their long walks with His Lordship and his dog, Tiaa. Now Carson stopped abruptly. The light atmosphere that had prevailed between them to this point suddenly evaporated.

"Go on," he said gravely, a worried look taking form on his craggy features.

Lady Mary's shoulders rose and fell heavily. Clearly this was not an easy admission for her. Carson understood this. She was distressed in some way and it involved her husband. Naturally, she was reticent. But it was his role in her life to listen attentively, to provide support, to comfort, and to advise. He stood ready to play his part.

"I don't quite know how to put it," she said, and there was an almost desperate note in her voice.

He waited and grew increasingly concerned, even more so when he saw her eyes glistening. Lady Mary was not given to tears. "My lady," he said gently, and took her hand. Her fingers tightened over his.

"It's only that I think ... I don't _feel_ ..." She was struggling to put it into words, and then they came bubbling to the surface. "I don't know that I love him, Carson." And then there _were_ tears in her eyes and he did what he always did when his Lady Mary faced a crisis - he put his arms around her. She leaned into him, pressing her face into his chest, her tears dampening his shirtfront.

He held her for a long moment. The confession had taken an emotional toll. Once she had reconciled herself to this revelation of vulnerability, she would be able to talk about it. In the meantime, he held her closely and rubbed her shoulder reassuringly and absorbed her tears.

With a great gulping breath she drew back a little, giving him access to his handkerchief, which he extracted from his front pocket and put into her hand. She gave him a grateful smile and dabbed at her eyes. With another deep breath she gently disengaged from him. She did not apologize for this lapse in her formal demeanour. They had had too many occasions like this one for her to be self-conscious with him.

"Can you tell me about it?" he asked tenderly.

She nodded and then told him about her indecision in the face of Mr. Talbot's passionate declarations of love, about how she had felt pressured by Mr. Branson and Mr. Talbot both, about how she'd felt out of control as though swept along on an unstoppable current that had brought her to the altar. "It seemed all right for a while," she said, "but all my doubts have returned. And it's not to be blamed on the emotional upheavals or chemical imbalances or whatever it is of motherhood, Carson," she said peremptorily, glaring at him almost crossly as though he had suggested it were. "This ... _malaise_ ... is only a return of something I've felt all along. I just ... don't love him." And her voice almost broke again with this declaration. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

"I know there's nothing to be done," she went on. "We're married now. And I don't want to divorce. But I'm not happy. And Mr. Talbot can't be either. It's not fair to him."

"Have you not spoken to him of this, my lady?" Carson asked softly.

"How can I?" she demanded, gazing at him fiercely. "How can I tell him that I ... don't love him?"

Advice of this sort was not Carson's _forté._ He had little experience with the vagaries of love. But he could not fail Lady Mary. He looked around. There were benches at the most scenic spots along the paths and his recent re-acquaintance with the estate grounds had given him a knowledge of their location. There was one, he knew, not far away. Taking her hand, he led her to it. Shep, knowing that this meant a pause in their walk, stretched out in the sun nearby.

For some minutes they sat together in silence, his thumb gently tracing the fine bones along the back of her hand.

"You've asked for my advice," he said finally.

"Yes." Her eyes were firmly fixed on his and he saw in them a plea for help more acute than her words could convey.

"Well. First, I have confidence in you, my lady." He felt the pressure of her hand in his as he said this. "I cannot speak about your feelings for Mr. Talbot. Only you can know the truth there. But you were not lacking in options. There was the Viscount Gillingham and Mr. Blake, perfectly nice gentlemen I am sure. But they did not measure up. Mr. Talbot did."

"But what if I made a mistake? There was so much pressure..."

"I have never known you to do anything you did not yourself _want_ to do," Carson said.

"Well, perhaps I've changed," she said wretchedly.

He frowned a little. She was in a bad way.

"May I ask how it was you came to this conclusion, my lady? I mean, about the inadequacy of your affections for Mr. Talbot?" He tried to put it delicately. This was an intimate matter, after all.

She sighed. "I've been married before, Carson. I know what it is to love with all my heart."

This passionate declaration caught at _his_ heart. He knew how fiercely she loved.

"And ... I don't feel it. I _care_ for Mr. Talbot. He is a ... a lovely man. I could list his virtues all day. I admire him. I _like_ him. I would want him in my corner in a fight. But I don't ... _love_ him."

She seemed so fragile in this moment that he almost put his arms around her again. But he resisted the impulse. Lady Mary was strong, even if she had flashes of vulnerability, and he must summon her back to that core of her being, not indulge her doubts.

"You are thinking of your life with Mr. Crawley, then, and finding Mr. Talbot wanting in comparison."

"Not _him_ , Carson. It's my love for him that's lacking. I can't help it."

"But you _must_ help it, my lady."

The firmness in his voice brought her up short. He had always been honest with her and had, once or twice been almost brutal with the truth. Such occasions had been hard on both of them. She stiffened now, perhaps alert to the possibility of yet another such ordeal. But he continued to hold her hand.

"Mr. Talbot is _not_ Mr. Crawley, my lady, and that is a good thing, for you have changed much over the past few years, too. You are no longer the woman you were when you were married to Mr. Crawley."

"Go on."

"If I may be so bold, my lady, you had your ups and downs with Mr. Crawley, too. Only they were _before_ you were married. You turned him down, brushed him off, refused to swallow your pride over him, and almost married another man before you 'saw the light,' as it were. And all of this, all this... _turmoil_ and _doubt_ occurred amidst the crucible of war, which could only heighten the feelings you had for him. Mr. Talbot is a man in ordinary times. He is not an ordinary man, my lady. You would never have been drawn to an unremarkable man. But he does live in ordinary times. You do yourself no disservice by accepting that."

She was frowning at him, taking in what he said, thinking about it.

"There is something else you must accept and it, too, is simply a fact rather than some kind of failing to be lamented. Mr. Crawley was your first love," he said gently, "and there is nothing like your first love."

"He wasn't..."

"Yes," Carson interrupted her. "He _was_." He was not about to give the ill-fated Turk a look in on this. "Love is one of those experiences in life - you must always remember the first time as something special, because it _was_ the first time. That doesn't diminish subsequent experiences. It just means they must be different."

The searching gaze she focused on him had an almost physical impact. "Was Mrs. Hughes your first love, Carson?"

It was an intimate question, but, he supposed, they were already knee deep in it anyway.

"No." He was gratified by her muted reaction. She gave a little nod of acknowledgment and then raised a questioning brow.

Elsie was the only person who knew his story. Well, Elsie and Charlie Grigg, too, but he didn't like to think about Grigg.

"It was a long time ago," he said. "Long before you were born, even. I fell in love, but she married someone else." There was nothing more to it.

"Then it was more than thirty-five years before you loved again."

She was trying to make connections with her own experience. Did she think, perhaps, that she had moved too quickly in marrying Mr. Talbot?

"My lady, everyone's lives are different. I entered service. I had no thoughts of love or marriage." That wasn't completely accurate, but it was the practical reality of much of his adult life.

"Then what changed?"

"My lady?"

"You knew Mrs. Carson for decades, worked with her for ...what? twenty-five, thirty years? How did you come to love her? Because I know it _is_ love, Carson. I have seen it in your eyes and the way you are together."

He was sure he felt the colour rising in his face, but he tried to ignore it. "We grew together," he said simply. "As you and Mr. Crawley did."

"But ... _why_ ... after thirty years...?"

"We might have gone on just the same," he said, although he wondered if that would have been the case because he could not now imagine his life without Elsie as his wife. "But then there was a crisis and the feelings that were _there_ , somewhere, came to the surface."

She did not ask, and he was glad, because he did not want to tell her, what the crisis was. It was a private matter for Mrs. Carson, Mrs. Hughes as she had then been. And it had been a traumatic episode in his own life. But he could pinpoint his epiphany with mathematical precision - it was that moment when Dr. Clarkson had confirmed an uncertainty - that Elsie had had tests and that the results, which would indicate whether or not she had cancer, had yet to arrive. In the instant that he realized he might lose her, he had suddenly become aware that he could not bear the thought of it.

He did not want to dwell on this and pushed these memories from the forefront of his mind. The problem here was what to say to Lady Mary about her own predicament.

"My point, my lady, is that you cannot compare Mr. Crawley and Mr. Talbot. That they are not the same man, that your experience of love with them is not the same, does not mean that you cannot love Mr. Talbot with all your heart."

"But ... how?"

He took a deep breath. "Have confidence in _yourself_. You believed yourself in love with him, else you would not have married him," he said this firmly. "And take charge of the situation, my lady. Do not passively accept this ... _malaise_ , you called it. Instead, _try_ to love him. _Act_ as though you love him. _Do things_ to foster your love for him. _Think actively_ about what it is you liked about him to begin with."

"I cannot pretend to have feelings where they do not exist, Carson."

"You may find that you do not have to manufacture the feelings, that they are still there, where you left them."

She was frowning at him. "You're telling me this is all in my head." It was not a suggestion that pleased her.

"Not quite. Only I think you have gotten into a bit of a rut. You may need a little elbow grease to get yourself out of it."

She almost smiled. "I don't know much about elbow grease, Carson."

"That's not so, my lady."

"I hope I don't have to deal with a crisis to find out that you're right."

"I don't think a crisis is a _requirement_ ," he said, trying for a lighter tone.

They sat quietly then, only staring at each other. This intense contemplation discomfited neither of them.

She _was_ a marvel, he thought, absorbing the beauty of her great dark eyes, the artistry of her fine cheek bones, the slightly defiant tilt of her exquisitely formed chin. Could he ever have loved another child as he loved her?

"' _You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din_ ,'" Lady Mary said suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" Had he ever heard her quote Rudyard Kipling?

"I don't know that, having known love, _I_ could have gone thirty or more years before dipping my toe in those waters again," she said, her voice a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

Now he understood. "Well," he said warmly, his heart brimming with adoration, "there are different kinds of love, my lady."

 ***A/N1.** Thomas's suggestion regarding an inventory of Downton's treasures was made in Chapter 5 of _Enough of That_.

 ****A/N2.** Lady Mary's request that Carson accept the role of godfather to her son, Stephen Henry Charles Talbot, is made in _What You Mean To Me_.


	13. Chapter 13

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **Episode 4. Chapter 3.**

 **Daisy, Mrs. Patmore, and Mr. Mason**

"I have something to say," Daisy announced.

She was standing at the head of the table in the kitchen at Yew Tree Farm. Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Mason sat on either side of her, neither of them looking particularly comfortable. Daisy supposed her forceful summons had disturbed them. She so rarely had anything important to impart.

She could hear the note of defiance in her voice and made an effort to quell it. All her life she had been deferential to everyone and it was almost necessary for her to be rude in order to overcome this ingrained behaviour. "I know you're not going to like it, but I've made up my mind."

She took a deep breath. "I have to go away," she said. "I'm leaving Yew Tree Farm and Downton and Yorkshire even."

They were shocked, of course. Mrs. Patmore gasped. Mr. Mason made a sound, almost like a yelp. But then he quickly pulled himself together.

"I hope you're going to tell us why."

Daisy nodded. "I will. I have to go," she continued. "I'm not sure where I'm going yet, but this time I _am_ going. I can't do otherwise."

"What do you mean by it, Daisy?" demanded Mrs. Patmore, finding her voice. "I thought everything was going well for you as assistant cook at Downton and here on the farm."

She sounded betrayed and Daisy understood that, a little at least.

"It has. It is," Daisy said soberly. "It's something else."

A sombre look descended on Mr. Mason. He leaned forward a little. "You needn't take such drastic action, lass. You should know that I'll ... _we'll_ always stand behind you, no matter what. The farm is a better place to be if you're ... Well." He spoke earnestly, but hesitantly as well, as if unsure of her reaction. "I'll not judge you, Daisy. You know that. Andy's a good lad. I'm sure he'll..."

Both Daisy and Mrs. Patmore were staring at him with fascinated horror.

"I'm not having a baby!" Daisy cried indignantly. She made a disgusted sound. "What are you thinking!" Daisy's narrow life had slowed her road to maturity, but she was just shy of her twenty-eighth birthday now and she'd caught onto things, even if she was still lacking in experience.

Mr. Mason sat back hastily at her sharp denial and he immediately attempted to minimize the damage. "I didn't mean nought by it. It's only when you said you've _got_ to leave us and all."

Daisy didn't want to be sidetracked, so she chose not to take umbrage. Instead she pulled from her pocket the letter she had discovered the week before in the bottle at the back of the cupboard. "It's about _this_ ," she said. "I've found out something and it's changed ... everything for me. I won't turn my back on this kind of thing any more."

" _What_ kind of thing?" Mrs. Patmore cried impatiently. "What is it?"

"It's a letter," Daisy said. "From someone I don't even know."

"You're not making any sense, Daisy."

"You'll understand when you read it. Both of you."

Mrs. Patmore took it from her hand and began to read. When she finished the first page, she passed it across the table to Mr. Mason. The handwriting was plain and though the script was blurred in places as if by a drop of moisture, the message itself was only too clear.

 _If you're reading this letter, then you're living at Yew Tree Farm. I lived here, too, once. I don't anymore and that's the story I want to tell. I want you to know my story and to know what kind of people the Crawleys are._

 _My husband's family farmed at Yew Tree since the Napoleonic Wars. We were glad to take up the tenancy and we worked hard. My husband took on extra responsibilities for the family. We thought they valued us._

 _But then Lady Edith - she's Lady Hexham now, all la-di-da - had a baby. Without a husband. And because my husband - Tim he's called - had proved his loyalty to the family, she asked him to take her child, to bring the little girl into our house and to raise her as our own. He agreed. She made him agree that it would be a secret between the two of them. I didn't know the truth._

 _I loved our little Marigold like she was my own and our three children took to her, too. She was my baby. But Lady Edith couldn't let her - or us - alone. She was ever at our farm, in our kitchen, making a nuisance of herself. She spoiled Marigold and ignored our children. Tim put up with it. He felt sorry for her. But it got so I couldn't stand the sight of her. She wouldn't leave us alone and, of course, I didn't know why. We fought about her, Tim and I did. The children were upset and dear Marigold was unsettled whenever she came. I had Tim tell her to stay away._

 _Then she had an upset of some kind, Lady Edith did. I don't know what and why should I care, and it all came out. She landed in on us one day and said she was taking Marigold. Right out of the blue. Understand, the child had lived with us for nearly two years. I was her_ _mother_ _, the only mother she had ever known. She was_ _my_ _child! I loved her. I still love her. I will_ _always_ _love her. We all did._

 _But Lady Edith didn't care. She flung the birth certificate at me and tore my baby from my arms. I was heartbroken. I am_ _still_ _heartbroken. I had lost my child and found out that my husband had lied to me._

 _But at least we still had the farm._

 _Lady Edith took up at the Abbey with her little girl -_ _my_ _little girl - in the nursery as her ward. Even after all that, she wouldn't acknowledge Marigold as her daughter, though they all knew. I could see she didn't love Marigold. Not like I did. They put the children away and only bring them out at tea up there. Lady Edith hardly saw her. At the fair in Thirsk, they didn't even watch her. They let her get lost in the crowd. But I saw her and brought her home safe. My baby._

 _Then they told us we had to leave Yew Tree Farm. Lady Edith didn't want us -_ _me_ _\- near Marigold._

 _So we lost our home, too. My husband lost his family's heritage, I lost my child, and we very nearly lost our marriage, all because a nice man tried to do a good turn for a selfish_ _lady_ _who broke all the rules of respectability and then could think only of herself and what_ _she_ _wanted, and not about what was right and good for the child she had borne, but never mothered._

 _Watch yourself around them, the Crawleys. Lady Edith is the worst of the lot, but they all lined up behind her when she took my baby and spitefully drove us from our home. We were foolish enough to trust them, to give them our loyalty. We were betrayed. And we paid a terrible price. And so did a dear little girl._ _My little girl_ _._

 _Mrs. Tim Drewe._

Mrs. Patmore had tears in her eyes as she finished. She lifted her gaze to meet Daisy's, as Mr. Mason finished the last page.

"Did you know this?" Daisy asked the cook.

"No. Of course not!"

"I had no idea," Mr. Mason said, more bewildered than anyone else.

"It's been a big family secret," Mrs. Patmore went on.

"You know most everything," Daisy noted.

"You've mistaken me for Mrs. Carson, Daisy. Although I'm sure she doesn't know about it either."

"Crawleys." There was such contempt in Daisy's voice.

"Now Daisy..."

But Daisy cut Mr. Mason off before he could get started. "Don't go trying to tell me otherwise. I know it's only one side of the story. But some of the _facts_ speak for themselves. Lady Edith did go away to Switzerland for eight months. The Drewes _were_ at Yew Tree Farm and Miss Marigold _did_ live with them. And then she turned up at Downton and she was Lady Edith's special little girl. And then the Drewes left, just after the stock fair in Thirsk. That's all true. And then _I_ pushed Her Ladyship - _Her Ladyship_ \- into giving you Yew Tree Farm, without thinking about _why_ the Drewes were leaving."

She'd been brooding about it for days now and all the anger and hostility and revulsion she'd been working to keep at bay were now in danger of spilling over.

"It's nought to do with you, Daisy," Mr. Mason said, trying to placate her. "We didn't put the Drewes out."

"No. But we're profiting from their misfortune, aren't we?"

"I'll grant you that it's a bit of a shock," Mrs. Patmore admitted. "I'd not have thought Lady Edith capable of such cruelty."

Daisy scoffed at this and turned away, her arms folded tightly. "You don't know her like I do," she muttered.

"And," Mrs. Patmore went on, "I am surprised at His Lordship, treating such a loyal tenant so poorly..."

"Lady Edith is his child," Mr. Mason put in, _sotto voce_.

Daisy's ire rose again. "And that means he can do the Drewes like that, does it? Treat them like so much dirt? It were Lady Edith that broke the rules and got herself into trouble and now _she's_ a Marchioness. And where are the Drewes, who saved her reputation and loved her child? Out in the cold."

"I wasn't saying it were the _right_ thing," Mr. Mason said, trying to be patient. "But people - poor people, rich people, _all_ people - lose perspective when it comes to their own children. Lord Grantham, and Lady Edith, too, for that matter, aren't any better or worse than the rest of us."

"That's a poor excuse."

"It may be," Mr. Mason said doubtfully, "but there it is."

"You would have thought of your child first," Daisy said fiercely, "not yourself."

He didn't answer that and she knew why. She was right.

"Don't you _despise_ Lady Edith?" she demanded desperately, looking to Mrs. Patmore.

"Well I'm not impressed, that's for sure," Mrs. Patmore said flatly. "But Daisy, why've _you_ got to go anywhere just because Lady Edith's proven such a disappointment?"

They didn't understand. It was her impulse to rage, but suddenly she lost the energy for it.

"I've had it with them," she said simply. "They play with our lives without any thought and reward us or reject us on a whim. It's not right."

"I don't think it's quite..."

"And to stay _here_ ," she gestured around them, "is like I'm part of it. If I just go on, especially here at Yew Tree Farm, then I'm turning a blind eye. I'm no better than them. And I'm tired of being a hypocrite about important things."

And she glared hard at Mrs. Patmore as she said this, thinking of the lie she had told William and then his father. _Dad_. Maybe they could all make out that that one had worked out well in the end, but there was no whitewashing the sorrow of Yew Tree Farm.

This statement subdued Mrs. Patmore and she subsided into silence, but Mr. Mason was not so uninhibited.

"Do you honestly think it's better anywhere else?" he asked.

Daisy turned to him. "No. I don't. But 'honestly' is a good word. The Crawleys play at being good people. We _do_ have it good here. I know that. But they're as ... _capricious_...," she had learned that word in her studies and never thought she'd have occasion to use it, "...as anyone else in their class. They can't be trusted. They give things, like they did to the Drewes, and then they take them away again as it suits them. I'd rather know that up front than be fooled by false kindness."

"Ah, Daisy!" Mrs. Patmore seemed truly distressed. "You don't think we're all of us so naive about it, do you?"

Daisy considered. "No. But you are accepting of it. I can't do it anymore." Her gaze fixed on one and then the other. "You've both been so kind to me. So loving. And I love you so much, too. But ... I don't want to live like this, _here_ , in the shadow of someone else's tragedy."

 **Thomas and Friends**

Thomas stood just inside the door of the Princess Amelia bedroom. He leaned forward almost imperceptibly until he could see up and down the gallery. It was empty. Silently he stepped into the passage, pausing for a moment to choose which way he might go, and then moved to the right. He wasn't especially fond of cats, but he admired their ability to move soundlessly and had, over the years, honed his own capacity for this. It had served him well in the practice of strategic eavesdropping.

As he approached the next door along, he flattened himself against the wall and his movements slowed once more. When his shoulder touched the doorframe, he paused, listening hard for sounds from within. It was so still on the gallery that he thought he might have caught the sound of a breath being hastily withdrawn. He smiled.

Carefully he edged his head past the doorframe and peered into the room. Nothing moved. He saw and heard nothing. But there was someone there, all right. He walked right into the room, then, and looked around.

"I wonder," he said, his voice crisp and clear, rattling the silence and, he exulted, eliciting a stifled giggle. "Where could someone hide in here?"

"Aha!" He pounced on a jar on the bedside table. "In the biscuit jar!" It was, of course, obvious that no one or nothing could hide there, for the jar was a glass one and its contents easily seen. But he lifted the lid and sighed heavily in failure nonetheless. Again there was a muffled gurgle of amusement from somewhere nearby.

"Behind the curtains!" he declared, and bounded across the room to ruffle through the heavy curtains that framed the windows. This was, at least, a reasonable possibility, for the bottoms of the curtains pooled on the floor so as to absorb draughts and could easily disguise feet. But he had been fairly certain that this, too, was a fruitless choice before it proved to be so.

"Where, oh where, I wonder," he said again, now letting a feigned frustration creep into his voice. There really weren't many options in the room. He came over silent again and moved to the bed.

"What ... about..." He dropped to his knees and pulled up the bedcovers, declaring at the same time, "What about under the bed!"

Success! A shriek greeted him as his eyes fell on a dark-haired girl lying there. Sybbie Branson burst into laughter as the butler's face appeared suddenly in front of her. The serious expression on Thomas's face as he had prowled in pursuit of his prey melted into a wide smile. And not just because he had found Sybbie. Even as he gave her a hand to help her out of her hiding place, he heard a smothered giggle behind him. He came over solemn again and, catching Miss Sybbie's eye, he held a finger to his lips in a wordless bid for conspiratorial silence.

Together the two of them tip-toed over to the wardrobe which Thomas knew to be empty of clothing, as the guest room was unoccupied, but knew also to be the perfect refuge for a small boy earnestly engaged in hide-and-seek. Thomas closed his hand over the wardrobe's doorknob and turned it with the utmost care so as not to give away his presence. Then, without warning, he yanked it open.

Master George Crawley tumbled forth, laughing so hard he fell over. Miss Sybbie and Thomas joined him in his mirth, though neither collapsed on the floor beside him.

"You found me, Mr. Barrow!" cried the small boy, accepting Thomas's hand up.

"Not without difficulty, Master George. Now."

The two children looked at him alertly at this final word.

"I think if we move quickly enough, we _might_ just make it," Thomas said, and strode toward the door. They followed him. All three came to an abrupt halt at the door as Thomas cautiously appraised the situation, looking up and down the corridor. Then he signalled to them and all three dash down the gallery to the nursery door. It was still empty. Nanny had not yet returned with Master Stephen.

"Quickly!" Thomas barked.

He dropped into a comfortable, overstuffed chair and picked up a book, while the children fell onto stools across from him. Then they all breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Made it!"

"Mr. Barrow, will you come to visit me at my new house?"

Thomas looked up alertly at Miss Sybbie's unexpected question. "You've not gone anywhere yet!"

The look she fixed on him took him aback. Miss Sybbie was so closely associated with her father, Tom Branson, that sometimes Thomas forgot that she was Lady Sybil's daughter, too. Lady Sybil had died only hours after her daughter's birth. But every once in a while, as in this moment, there were in her daughter's face and bearing flashes of that impetuous and independently-minded young woman, the only member of the Crawley family whom Thomas could say he had really known and genuinely admired. To see the ghost of Lady Sybil in the expectant expression of her daughter was unsettling.

"I'll look in," he said, his resistance melting. " _If_ I can."

"But you'll still play with me!" Master George said firmly, determined to claim his share of attention.

"Of course."

They heard the shuffling in the hall and Nanny Gordon came in, with a fresh and tousled baby boy in her arms. Her gaze fell on a charming scene of Downton Abbey's formal butler apparently in the midst of a dramatic reading of _Winnie the Pooh_.

"Thank you so much for reading to them, Mr. Barrow," gushed Nanny. " I'd have been at my wit's end this morning if you hadn't stopped in for a moment." She glanced at the two older children, posed angelically before the butler. "They're so quiet for you."

Thomas smiled graciously. "It was my pleasure." He closed the book and put it down, and then headed for the door. Before he disappeared, he looked over his shoulder and winked at the two children, who were waiting for just such a signal. They burst into laughter. He was on his way before Nanny could make anything of it.

 **Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson**

Mrs. Carson and Mrs. Patmore were having tea again. The cook might not have sought out the other woman for a chat quite so soon in ordinary circumstances, but the conversation with Daisy the previous afternoon required an early consultation. The substance of that exchange had also pushed the problem of Mr. Mason into the background.

"Did _you_ know about Lady Edith?" Mrs. Patmore asked the housekeeper, glancing uneasily toward the sitting room door and speaking in a hushed tone for any number of reasons. She didn't want to re-ignite Daisy's ire. And she certainly didn't want any member of the family who might be in the vicinity, though they rarely came unannounced to the kitchen, to overhear her And she emphatically _did not_ want the day maids or the hallboy or even Andy listening to this tale.

Mrs. Carson shrugged. "You've filled in a lot of the gaps," she said, "but I had an inkling or two."

Mrs. Patmore suspected that Mrs. Carson was exercising a degree of circumspection, but let it go. She wanted to address other matters while she had the opportunity.

"Daisy's wanting to leave us over it," Mrs. Patmore went on. "Says she feels _compromised_ because she was involved in getting Mr. Mason into Yew Tree Farm, even though she didn't know why the Drewes were leaving and that they'd been evicted, more or less. We had a time of it getting her to make proper plans instead of throwing everything up and dashing off into the night."

"She ought not to throw her life away because of anything the family does," Mrs. Carson agreed. "How did you persuade her differently?"

"I suggested she talk to someone _outside_ , someone beyond the walls of Downton Abbey or the estate and the village. I said why didn't she write to that schoolteacher, Miss Bunting, and ask her for advice. She accepted that."

Mrs. Carson gave her friend an admiring glance. "That was a good idea. What about Gwen, too?'

For a moment the cook was puzzled. "Oh, Gwen! What's her name now?"

"Mrs. Harding," Mrs. Carson supplied. "Miss Bunting was a valuable mentor for Daisy, but Gwen has actually climbed the ladder, so to speak, from housemaid to middle class respectability."

"By marrying into it," Mrs. Patmore said bluntly. "I doubt that'll happen with our Daisy. I doubt she'll marry anyone." She related Mr. Mason's initial misunderstanding of Daisy's agitation, and the two women had a bit of a laugh over it.

"Oh, my," Mrs. Carson gasped. "I wish I'd seen the look on her face!"

"I'll tell her about Gwen," Mrs. Patmore said. "Do you have an address?"

Mrs. Carson obligingly reached for her address book.

"By the way, I thought Mr. Carson was going to hire a young woman to help him with his book?"

The housekeeper almost dropped the slim volume in her hand. "Yes. He was," she said shortly. She took a slip of paper and began to write out Gwen's address.

Mrs. Patmore was distracted. "Is there a problem with Mr. Ryder?"

"No," Mrs. Carson said coolly. "There's absolutely _nothing_ wrong with Mr. Ryder."

"Then...why do you sound like there is?"

Mrs. Carson sighed. "He only appeared last Friday and I know more about him than ... almost than about Lady Mary!"

"Oh." Mrs. Carson's tone said a lot, but this allusion to Lady Mary left no room for doubt. "Mr. Carson goes on a bit about him, then."

"You'd think it was the Second Coming!" Even as the words slipped from her, Mrs. Carson reined herself in a little. "Mr. Carson is very enthusiastic about the young man," she said, more dispassionately.

"It'll pass," Mrs. Patmore said reassuringly. "Mr. Carson finds fault with everyone. Eventually."

The cook's blunt assessment of her husband brought a faint smile to Mrs. Carson's lips. "True. Oh! I'm sorry that it never occurred to me to suggest he stay at your bed-and-breakfast. He mentioned that he needed accommodation and I sent him to the post-office to look up notices instead. I should have thought."

But Mrs. Patmore was unperturbed. "A young man like that? In residence for a few months with our Lucy? I've had enough scandal, thank you." Then she sighed. "Why is it that _our_ scandals threaten to ruin us, and _their_ scandals...don't seem to have any effect at all? Except on the people like us, like the Drewes, who get caught up in them?"

"You say that as though you expect there to be some fairness in life," Mrs. Carson observed.

They drank their tea.

 **Bates and Robert**

"I'm to meet Mr. Houghton, the American Ambassador, in London on Thursday morning, Bates."

It was Tuesday night and Bates was attending Robert in his dressing room.

"We'll go up on tomorrow afternoon and stay at my club, rather than bothering with the house, and come back on Thursday evening." Robert paused while Bates helped him out of his dinner jacket. "I hope that causes no inconvenience?"

Robert's consideration was sincere, but also perfunctory. Lady Mary had adjusted her habits to accommodate Anna, but no one, Bates included, expected the Earl of Grantham to reduce his valet's duties because that valet had become a father.

"Not at all, my lord," Bates replied smoothly.

"I'm going to invite him to Downton for the second weekend in September. I understand Mr. Houghton enjoys horse-racing. We'll attend the St. Leger Stakes at Doncaster."

"A racing weekend," Bates murmured. "Very English, my lord."

Robert grinned at him. "That's what we're aiming for, Bates."

"I understand Mr. Houghton is a strong advocate of European peace." Bates read the papers regularly.

"We should _all_ be advocates of that, I think," Robert said, exchanging knowing glances with his valet.

"Amen to that."

Neither of them had served in the Great War, but they had vivid memories of their own war fought on the veldts of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State at the turn of the century. And while they were both proud of their service, neither admired war.

As he hung up His Lordship's shirt, Bates made a decision. It had been on his mind for some time, but the moment seemed propitious.

"Your timing is impeccable, my lord. I have some business matters of my own to attend to in London." He spoke casually, conversationally, but His Lordship's eyes flickered in his direction

"Is this about your house?" Robert asked lightly.

"Yes, my lord."

"You're going to sell in then?"

Bates nodded, meeting His Lordship's gaze directly. "We are. We have no firm plans yet, my lord, but Anna and I are beginning to think in more concrete terms about our future, and about a different kind of life for ourselves in the years ahead." He spoke easily though his heart constricted as he formed the words. "Downton has been good to us, my lord," he added solemnly. " _You_ have been very good to us."

"Bates." His Lordship spoke quietly, but earnestly in his turn. "There's no need to explain. We have had many good years together. But the birth of your son has altered your life, your aspirations. That is how it should be."

The valet was not given to sentimentality, though Anna and Robbie and Robert Crawley, too, were exceptions to that. His eyes glistened at His Lordship's understanding. "It will be difficult to leave Downton, my lord. And you."

"And difficult for us - for me - to see you go," Robert admitted. "But it's still the right thing, for you and your family. I wish you well."

They exchanged meaningful looks, gratitude emanating from both sides.

Bates clear his throat. "We thought to sell the house first and then take our time looking for the right situation. We won't leave you in a lurch, my lord. Anna and I will ensure smooth transitions for our successors."

Robert managed a smile. "I'm not worried."

"Anna would like to tell Lady Mary herself, if possible."

"Of course. I shall say nothing except to Her Ladyship."

Bates nodded and then, finished with his ministrations, he silently withdrew. Closing the door behind him, he exhaled deeply. He had expected no less from His Lordship. The man was graciousness personified. But now the iron was in the fire. It was the first page of the next chapter in his life with Anna.

As he made his way down the gallery to the servants' staircase, he reflected that His Lordship's London trip was fortuitous in more ways than one. Enlisting an agent to take on the house sale would take but little time. His main concern in London was the mission he had undertaken for the Dowager. He had written letters of inquiry, but his information was as yet incomplete. Now he must undertake some more specific research.

London beckoned.

 **Robert and Cora**

"I told you," Robert announced, as he came through from his dressing room.

Cora, already attended to by the ever-efficient Baxter, was sitting in bed with the report of the Royal Commission on the Poor Laws in her lap. It was, lamentably, quite a substantial volume.

"Told me what?" she asked almost absently, although she did look up.

"Bates," he said with a dramatic flourish. "And Anna. They're getting ready to move on. When we're in London this week, he's going to see an agent about selling his mother's house." He wriggled free of his robe and folded it over the foot of the bed before climbing in beside Cora.

He had her full attention now. Cora reached out to pat his arm sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Robert."

He smiled at her concern, even as he shrugged it off. "It's been a long time coming and I don't begrudge them one bit," he said firmly and sincerely. "And they won't be gone by Tuesday, so I've time to absorb the blow. Oh. Don't mention this to Mary. Anna wants to tell her herself."

"Of course." Cora understood that. "Mary," she said simply, and Robert nodded in agreement. The relationship between their daughter and her maid was close and long-standing. "Will you hire a new valet?"

Robert gave it a moment's consideration, although he already knew the answer. "Yes. As far as I am concerned, the valet is a necessary member of staff. It'll be different, like Barrow when Carson retired. The new man can never be what Bates has been, but I daresay we'll rub along well enough anyway."

"Your mother would be proud of you, Robert," Cora said, not concealing her own admiration for him. "Getting on with it, I mean."

He looked a little puzzled. "What else is there to do?" Despite his exterior calm, he _was_ somewhat shaken by Bates's announcement, but Cora's words distracted him. "Mama," he said. "Have you noticed anything ... different about her recently?"

"Yes," Cora said, and she came over a little perplexed. "She's ... not so combative."

That this appeared to Cora a point for concern might have bemused someone else, but Robert knew exactly what she meant. "Ought we to look into that?" he asked, genuinely asking for her advice.

"Perhaps you should visit," Cora suggested. "If I start looking worried, that'll put the wind up her, and we'll never know if there's anything to it."

"Hmm." He nodded.

Absently he reached for the book on his bedside table and Cora, sensing that the conversation was over, picked up her own book. And then, her concentration disrupted, she glanced at him again.

"What're _you_ reading?" she asked.

" _The Economic Consequences of the Peace_ , by John Maynard Keynes," he said, holding it up so she could read the spine.

"Why?"

"Homework," he said. "I'm to see Mr. Houghton this week in London and, although I don't expect he'll want to discuss the affairs of state with me, I still thought I ought to read up on those issues that most concern him. And us. And," he added, tapping his open page, "it's actually quite interesting."

Cora coughed in disbelief. "Robert! That sounds like the most boring book ever."

Robert emitted a sound of exasperation and half-turned toward her. "Cora, _you're_ reading a Royal Commission Report. On the _Poor Laws_."

She did not take his point. "Mine's a lot more interesting than yours," she said confidently.

He reached for her book and handed her his own and for a few minutes they perused the pages before them.

"Good heavens!" he said at last, clapping her book closed and handing it over in a manner that suggested he could not get rid of it soon enough.

Cora only rolled her eyes as she passed his book back to him.

For a moment they simply stared at each other, at first not quite believing the other's absorption in their respective books. Then thoughts of the Treaty of Versailles and Britain's Poor Laws slipped rapidly from their conscious minds.

"Have I told you recently how very much I love you?" Robert said, his eyes softening with emotion.

Cora did not reply in words, only leaning into him. Robert slipped one arm about her as their lips met and reached out clumsily with the other, trying to find the light switch. As the darkness engulfed them, their books thudded to the floor on either side of the bed, unheeded by their readers who were now absorbed in more alluring pursuits.


	14. Chapter 14

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **EPISODE 4. Chapter 4.**

 _ **Friday August 27, 1926***_

 **Mary and Henry**

Time might march on, but _some_ things did not change. There was still a scullery maid, the lowliest of the house servants, at Downton, although now she came up from the village before dawn to light the bedroom fires. The newspapers were still ironed to dry the ink, albeit now by the hallboy rather than the most junior of the footmen. And Anna still came to Lady Mary's bedroom to open the curtains and get her clothing ready for the day.

Since Stephen's birth, Mary had more often than not been awake and sometimes even out of bed to attend to her son when Anna came in. Henry had accommodated himself to the morning rhythms at Downton that always allowed for the servants to get the house running and have their own breakfast before the family began to impose with their needs. Always an early riser, now he stirred only when the first ray of sunshine darted past the receding curtain. Mary smiled when she remembered how Anna's presence in their bedroom had discomfited Matthew. Henry never gave it a thought.

"Good morning, Anna," Mary said cheerfully. She did not feel quite as ebullient as her tone suggested, but she had determined to try Carson's advice to _think_ herself into more positive feelings.

"Good morning, my lady."

Anna, Mary thought enviously, did not have to feign her cheerfulness. Not anymore, anyway. Things were going smoothly for the Bateses and it was about time. Mary was still watching the other woman, meditating on how she might apply Carson's wisdom to Henry, when she saw Anna falter and then grab the window frame for support.

"Anna!"

The alarm in Mary's voice roused the still-drowsing Henry to alertness. "What is it?"

Mary was already scrambling out of the bed and Henry was right behind her.

"What is it?" Mary said, echoing her husband as she reached out to support Anna.

"I don't..." Anna had gone pale, but the long-cultivated discipline of her work overrode the sudden physical weakness. "I'm just not feeling well, my lady. I..."

"Sit." Servants did not sit in the presence of the family, but Mary was the least concerned with such regimented conventions at the best of times and not at all in an emergency. She helped Anna around to a chair and then pushed her into it. Then Henry was there and Mary was grateful to see that he had brought a damp cloth, rinsed out in the water basin on the stand by the door. He took each of Anna's hands in turn and bathed them.

"I'm fine," Anna protested, discomfited as she always was by attention.

Neither Mary nor Henry paid any heed to her until the colour began to return to her cheeks. Anna took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then was suddenly aware of the two worried faces so close to her own.

"I feel a bit of a fool," she said, with an apologetic smile.

"Nonsense," Henry said affably. But he did get up to put his dressing gown on over his pajamas and discreetly withdrew to the bedside where he affected busy-ness in order to let Mary manage things.

"Anna."

"I'm all right, my lady," Anna said, her voice firmer now. "Just a little nauseous, is all. I thought I was going to..." She closed her eyes for a moment and then, brushing off Mary's concerns, got to her feet. "I must get on."

"If you're sure," Mary said, not convinced. "Why don't you go down to the servants' hall for half an hour. Catch your breath. I'm not going anywhere today. Dressing can wait."

Anna went, perhaps glad to escape further scrutiny.

"What was that about?" Henry asked, looking at the door through which Anna had disappeared.

"I don't know." Whatever it was troubled her though. Mary took a deep breath herself and then turned toward her husband. She'd wanted to talk to him this morning, to _try_ to talk to him anyway and this delay in the morning routine gave her an opportunity. "Are you in a hurry?"

Henry glanced over his shoulder at her. "No. And anything can wait for you."

She knew he was sincere and tried not to let his kindness grate on her. "Granny said something curious to me the other day."

Henry came and sat beside her, his manner attentive.

"She said I had no friends. What do you make of that?"

He looked as puzzled by it as she had initially felt. "I hadn't noticed," he said slowly. "You seem ... complete ... to me. That's a silly way to put it. I don't quite know how to say what I mean." He frowned a little as he tried to find the right words.

But Mary was nodding. She understood what he meant.

"What do _you_ think?" he asked.

"I hadn't noticed either," she said. "I didn't think I was lacking for people to discuss matters of importance with. But Granny meant a _woman_ friend."

"Do you want women friends?"

"No. I never have. There's never been a ...," she hesitated, "...a Charlie Rogers in my life."

This reference to his dead friend touched Henry. A shadow flickered across his face. Mary reached for his hand. They had been so close, Henry and Charlie. And the loss was magnified for Henry by the manner of his friend's death - in the sudden fiery inferno of a car crash. Mary coudl sympathize with that.

His eyes came up to hers. "I miss him. We had a special bond. Not just cars, but ... camaraderie. He was always there for me, always ready for any new adventure, however bold or silly it might be." Henry's mouth twisted into a wistful smile. "We had a laugh together, Charlie and I." Then he straightened suddenly, as if shaking off a wave of melancholy. "I'm fortunate, very fortunate, that Tom came into my life just before Charlie's death. It's not the same. They're different men. But..."

"And a wife isn't the same? I'm not challenging your friendships, Henry," she added. "I'm trying to understand."

He nodded and squeezed her hand. "No. It's not the same, though I can't really explain it. And I'm not suggesting that friends are better than or even a rival to a wife. Not at all. They're just ... different. Perhaps that's what your grandmother was trying to get at."

"Hmm. Perhaps."

"And perhaps you're not as friendless as your grandmother thinks."

"Meaning?"

"You have people in whom you confide, but they may not meet your grandmother's definition of 'friends.'" At her bemused expression, he went on. "There's Anna," he said. "Look at how you are with her. You have history and feelings and secrets between you. I'll never know all that, nor should I. That's you and Anna. Doesn't she count as a friend?"

Mary had been wondering the same thing.

"And there is Carson."

Henry's tone was different altogether with these words. Mary looked at him. They'd never discussed Carson. Somehow Matthew had just _understood_ about Carson. She remembered Matthew saying of the then-butler, " _Since he would open a vein for you._..." and that was so. "Carson is in a category all his own," she said abruptly, putting that topic away for another time. "I was thinking, when I was with him recently, that he and Papa were friends, although I doubt that either of them or indeed Granny, would ever describe them as such. Anna and I _are_ like that."

"But that wasn't what your grandmother meant."

"No, I think she had a more conventional definition, someone _like_ Charlie Roger and Tom for you. I think of Tom as _my_ friend, too, by the way." She spoke somewhat proprietorially there and Henry smiled at her.

"I know that."

"So Granny is right, then. I have no ... women friends."

"And this is bothering you."

Mary shrugged. "Well, I'm thinking about it." She turned a perplexed gaze on him. "How do you _make_ friends? I'm not sure I know."

He exhaled heavily. "Oh. Well. It's...not something one usually plans, is it? It just happens. I met Tom through you. We had common interests..."

"One common, overriding obsession," Mary corrected, smiling faintly.

"I enjoyed his sense of humour. He liked you - a lot - but wasn't a rival. He helped me to woo you..."

At this remark, Mary looked away. She was sensitive to what she perceived as a conspiracy on their part to pressure her into a relationship.

"And our friendship grew from there. Personality has a lot to do with it, too. I like Bertie Pelham. He's an affable sort. I converse easily with him. But we've little in common and there's no...spark, for want of a better word."

"Spark isn't a word I would apply to Bertie, no," Mary agreed readily. "Then you're saying that you can't _make_ friends? That it just happens?"

The conversation had defeated Henry. He held his hands up in surrender. "I don't know. Perhaps you could review your options if you really want one."

"Ah, the book-keeping method." This made them both laugh. Mary considered. "Well, I understand that some women are actually friends with their sisters. But Sybil is dead and Edith? I can't see it."

"Nor can I." Henry might be a relative newcomer to the Downton fold but he had early on discerned the nature of the relationship between the sisters. "Though you do have a common history to work from."

"But no common interests," Mary said emphatically.

"None?"

"None."

Henry moved on. "Any friends from your pre-marriage society days?"

"Other girls weren't friends, Henry. They were rivals. And then the war threw everything out of sorts. And I _have_ always gravitated toward men. I should have been born a boy. Things would have worked out much more smoothly." This was an old grievance for Mary.

"Well, _I'm_ glad you weren't."

His declaration was predictable, but not unwelcome. "I'm not unhappy about it either," she said, tossing her head. "But I just don't _like_ women. All they talk about are men and children, marriage and clothes." Henry was chuckling at this and Mary was almost exasperated with him for it. "Really! They do! It's so dull! Men talk about other things. Why can't women? No one thinks men love their families less because they enjoy their work, too."

"I'm only agreeing with you," Henry said amiably. His whole countenance seemed to brighten at her indignation. She knew he found her forceful personality attractive.

"My 'society friends,' as you might call them - Annabelle Portsmouth and Lucinda Waring and Celia Cheswick - dull as sticks. I might have been friends with Mabel Lane-Fox, but in the end there didn't seem to be much to her besides securing Tony Gillingham."

"Maybe we ought to get out more."

"I don't want to go friend-hunting. Rather pathetic, I think. I suppose I'm just wondering whether Granny is even right."

"Only you can answer that question."

Mary suppressed a sigh. When it came down to it, that was the rejoinder to every important question in life.

"I'd better check on Anna," Mary said firmly, getting up. "If she's the only friend I've got, then I' must look out for her." She leaned down to kiss him. She had confided and he had listened. It was the appropriate gesture in the moment, though she still felt it a somewhat hollow one. _Patience_ , she told herself, though she knew that that had never been one of her virtues.

 **Mary and Anna**

"Are you feeling better?" Mary asked solicitously, feeling the incongruity of the situation where Anna was bustling about while she waited for Anna's assistance. It was how things always were, but Anna's turn had shaken her a little. Mary did not want to overreact, but Anna was seldom ill.

Not surprisingly, Anna brushed off her concern. "I'm fine, my lady."

Mary was not convinced, but decided not to press the issue. Instead her thoughts turned to what Henry had said and as Anna slipped the dress over her head and buttoned her buttons, Mary pondered the idea of a friendship with Anna.

They _were_ friends, differences in class and status notwithstanding. No one knew as much about her as Anna did and no one was more stalwart at keeping her secrets. And no one, save Carson, was more forgiving of her shortcomings. She and Anna had made sacrifices for each other. Anna also spoke frankly to her in a way that no one else could. This relationship in many ways mimicked that between her father and Carson, for all of Carson's heated rejections of such presumption. Mary knew that both relationships were unequal, that she and her Papa received more than they gave, but also that they had made significant contributions to their friends' lives as well.

There were limitations, of course. Papa consulted Carson on almost everything, valued his advice, trusted implicitly to his judgment and discretion, and relished his companionship. But they were not equals. Papa might walk regularly with Carson and even have lunch with him at the pub in the village, but neither could imagine sitting down to dinner together in Downton's dining room. They were as close as two men could be who came from such different social stations. Yet for all their affection, the essential barrier remained. So it was with Mary and Anna. Mary wondered why she had not mentioned Anna when her grandmother had raised the questions of friends, and then realized that she did know why. Granny had been referring to a social equal and Mary had implicitly understood that.

"I've something to tell you, my lady."

Anna's remarked shattered Mary's reverie. She turned with a slightly distracted smile as Anna slipped a bracelet on her wrist and fastened the clasp.

"Good news?" Mary asked, with no idea what it could be.

Anna gave her a quick smile in return, although there was, too, a little line of concern on her forehead. "Yes, it is. I hope you'll agree."

"Of course I will," May said firmly, a little perplexed that Anna might imagine she would think otherwise.

"Mr. Bates and I have been thinking about our future," Anna said. "We've spoken for years about setting up in a hotel - a little hotel - of our own. And now that we have a family, it seems like the right time." Anna spoke in a forthright manner. She had never been a dissembler. And she met Mary's gaze, too. In the matter of her own life she had no reason to be deferential.

Mary was practiced in the art of concealing her emotions, though she seldom had occasion to have to try very hard where Anna was concerned. Habit asserted itself in this moment when her first reaction to Anna was a clutching at her heart. "Have you made any firm arrangements yet?" she asked, managing to keeping her voice light.

Anna shook her head. "No. Well, yes. Mr. Bates visited an agent in London while he was there with His Lordship to see about selling our house. We've no idea where we'll buy yet, though. We've not gotten that far."

"So nothing changes for the present."

"No, my lady. But I wanted you to know what we're about."

Despite her shock, and an immediate if irrational sense of being cast adrift which she sought to quench, Mary's demeanour softened at Anna's words. There was no guile about Anna. She was a private person, not a secretive one. She and her husband were moving forward with their lives, making plans for their family. As soon as those decision were made, Anna was conscientious enough to make them known to those whom they might affect. Anna, Mary thought, lived a life that followed straight lines.

"I _am_ happy for you," Mary said, and managed a smile, a real smile. She reached out to take Anna's hand. "I know you want to spend more time with Robbie. And Bates. Of course, a business can be _quite_ demanding, but I'm certain you and Bates have thought things through."

It was the right approach to take. Anna had spoken her piece with determination, but she did not or could not stifle a little sigh of relief at Mary's reaction. "We have, my lady," she said, with a trace of exuberance in her voice. Anna was excited for her future.

"I'll miss you dreadfully," Mary said, her tone warm but reflecting a note of wistfulness. It was only the truth and she would not deny that. "But family comes first. I know about that."

"We're hoping to find a place in the neighbourhood," Anna went on. "Mr. Bates and I are very fond of Downton." _And its inhabitants_. The unspoken words were clearly in the air.

Mary asked a few more questions, which elicited buoyant answers demonstrating that the Bateses were in fact embarking on their future with due deliberation. Then Anna collected the discarded nightclothes and was away to the laundry while Mary made her way downstairs. She paused on the landing, suddenly overtaken with a lightheadedness herself, and clutched the railing for support more emotional than physical.

 _Oh, Anna_!

 **Tom Departs**

He had preparing for this day for weeks and now it was upon him. Them. Tom and his daughter were formally leaving Downton Abbey for their new accommodations.

Tom had been delighted to scour the attics for furniture with which to set up house. The agent's cottage had stood empty for a good six years and needed everything. He knew he had to stop thinking of it that way.

"We should give it a name," he'd said to Sybbie. "Think it over and then we'll choose."

She was delighted with the idea.

To his relief and pleasure, Sybbie was excited by the whole experience. They had gone up to the attics together, with George, too, and had a lot of fun, filling the room with dust as they scattered dust sheets everywhere in the search for appropriate items. They didn't need much, just the necessary pieces for the bedrooms, and a few things for the sitting room and kitchen. Some pieces would have to be purchased. Tom insisted that the room for the new housekeeper be fitted out with new furniture.

Mary objected. "You've got it wrong, Tom. The servants get the cast-offs. _You_ get the new things."

He'd grinned at her. "And I'm enjoying the freedom to make my own decisions about things already!" he'd declared.

Mary had rolled her eyes and exchanged exasperated glances with Henry, almost but not quite behind Tom's back.

Cora had inquired how things were coming along and offered her opinion on everything from curtains to lampshades to housekeepers, but put her two pence in only when asked. Robert said nothing, ignored any conversation relating to the move, and pretended, it seemed, that it was not happening. But he couldn't stop it.

Tom decided they would make the formal move on the morning of August 27h, five days before Sybbie would begin at the local school on September 1. That would give the three of them - father, daughter, and housekeeper hired for the purpose - time to settle in before facing another momentous event. The family gathered in the Great Hall to see them off.

"We're only going down the road," Tom said, looking around at them all, but speaking more particularly to Robert. "We'll see you as often as ever."

George advanced on Sybbie and solemnly held out a hand. "Goodbye, Cousin."

As formally, she took his hand. "Goodbye, Cousin," she responded. And then she gave him a wild, exaggerated shake, dropped his hand, and dashed for the door, with George in hot pursuit.

"Sybbie!" Tom called after his daughter. "Come say goodbye to your grandparents!"

"They're gone," Mary said complacently, smiling approvingly after her son. George was a high-spirited boy and she loved that about him and encouraged him in it.

"I'll take these." Henry picked up two of the cases that Tom had brought down.

Andy, standing unobtrusively to one side, quickly moved to relieve him of them, but Henry nodded him off. Tom did let the footman take the remaining case. Andy was only doing his job, after all. It was a lesson that still grated on Tom.

"You'll not even miss us," Tom told Robert, as they all moved outside. "I'd wager you won't."

"Well." If Robert was trying to put a good face on things, he wasn't succeeding.

"Thank you," Tom said suddenly, his gaze turning to Cora, then to Robert, and back to Cora again. "For everything."

Cora hugged him then and Robert managed a smile as the two men shook hands. Henry's handshake was more enthusiastic, although hardly necessary. Work ensured that their relationship would be affected the least by this change.

Mary accompanied Tom to the car, both of them dodging their children who were running circles around them.

"It really is just down the road," Tom said again.

"Papa likes to have everyone about him," Mary said. "And the place _will_ be emptier without you and Sybbie. We'll all miss you. But we'll survive." They embraced. "George wants to go with you to the house," Mary added, her gaze straying to her son who had scrambled into the backseat and was now madly waving goodbye to his grandparents. Cora was playing along. Robert continued to hold back.

"He's welcome," Tom said. "And I'll make sure he's back, safe and sound, for lunch." And then he slipped into the driver's seat and set the car in motion.

As he directed the car down the drive, Tom glanced in the rearview mirror. He had to shift a bit to see around the tousled heads bobbing in the back seat. But when he got a clear view, he saw Cora and Robert comfortably arm-in-arm and Mary reach out, almost tentatively for Henry's hand, and then hold it awkwardly.

 **Thomas, Mr. Carson and Daniel Ryder**

Thomas emerged from the dining room, where he had been checking to make sure that all was in readiness for lunch, to see Mr. Carson crossing the Great Hall and disappearing into the small library.

It was a little jarring to see Mr. Carson here. While he was a not-infrequent visitor to the housekeeper's sitting room, he rarely came upstairs anymore. His Lordship still sought out his old butler's company, but their consultations now took place on their weekly long walks about the estate rather than in the dining room or the library. And it still looked wrong to see Mr. Carson attired in his grey suit rather than in the livery he had worn with dignity for decades.

Thomas shook off these unsettling currents. _He_ was the butler of Downton Abbey now. Mr. Carson was a visitor. Come to see his assistant, no doubt.

 _His assistant_. Thomas's thoughts turned to the newcomer even as he drifted over to hover by the library door. Thomas was still making up his mind about Daniel Ryder. The man had joined the staff at breakfast and lunch and tea every day that week and cast his charms over almost all of them. It was no surprise that the _women_ , young and old, were twittering about him. There were so few distractions for them. Even Daisy had been prevailed upon to full-sentence responses to Ryder's polite queries. But Ryder had also engaged the men, winning over Andy and the hallboy with sports talk and drawing the ever-reticent Mr. Bates into conversation about local matters.

Only Thomas and Mrs. Carson remained immune. Although she, too, lived away from the Abbey, the housekeeper had made it a point to eat breakfast with the staff several days a week and lunch every day. Thomas appreciated her presence. Like Mr. Carson before him, he had no jurisdiction over the maids and little patience with them. Madge had, thus far, been slow in taking up the slack there.

That Mrs. Carson also reserved judgment encouraged Thomas in his scepticism. He was no less suspicious of apparent perfection than he was of deviousness. Perfection, he had long ago surmised, was only a more effective disguise for someone with something to hide.

And as it was his business, as the butler of Downton Abbey, to identify and manage any threats to the tranquillity of the house, Thomas was not at all reluctant to take advantage of the opportunity now offered to eavesdrop on the conversation in the library. He smiled to himself. It was nice to have a legitimate rationalization for what he was going to do anyway. Information, he knew, never went to waste.

He paused by the door and then eased himself forward by almost imperceptible increments until he could just see into the room. Daniel Ryder sat with his back to the door. Mr. Carson was seated to his left. If he looked up, Mr. Carson might catch sight of Thomas, but the butler wasn't worried. He could tell that the older man was wholly engrossed in his exchange with Ryder. They were both hunched over a little bit, their body language a reflection of enthusiasm for their engagement.

"...a round-the-world tour in 1867," Ryder was saying.

Mr. Carson nodded vigorously and Thomas could see his eyes sparkling. "It was one of the highlights of His Lordship's life. He mentioned it often. His Lordship," Carson added, "was a member of the household of Prince Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh."

Thomas shook his head at Mr. Carson's tone. Only the Dowager could have spoken of her husband's exploits with more pride.

"Prince Alfred was the Duke of Saxe-Coburg, too, I think," Daniel Ryder mused.

In ordinary circumstances, Mr. Carson might have brushed off a foreign honour as insignificant compared to a British title, but his face brightened at this evidence of Ryder's knowledge. "He was!" he declared. "His Lordship and His Royal Highness were very close. The Prince gave His Lordship - the current one - and Her Ladyship a pair of very fine crystal goblets as a wedding gift, as a mark of his regard for the senior Granthams."

Ryder's murmured response was too indistinct for Thomas's ears, but he could tell the man was impressed by Carson's remarks.

"They only use the goblets on their quinquennial anniversaries," Carson added, "to emphasize the noteworthiness of such occasions." ******

Thomas was irked that Daniel Ryder either already knew what quinquennial meant, or was sharp enough not to ask. Thomas had asked and been treated to one of Mr. Carson's condescending explanations.

"The American Ambassador might enjoy seeing them when he's here." Ryder's voice once more came clearly to Thomas. That august visitor was expected at Downton in mid-September and the downstairs staff were already making preparations.

"Why?" Carson looked almost suspicious for a moment and Thomas knew the reason. Mr. Carson had guarded those goblets as carefully as he did Lady Mary's honour.

"Prince Alfred's collection of glass and ceramic ware is one of the most illustrious in the world..."

"Now resident in some castle in Germany," Carson muttered disapprovingly.

"...and Mr. Houghton's family fortunes were made in glass and ceramics - Corning Glass Works," Ryder finished.

Even a faint allusion to the _nouveau riche_ and manufacturing in the same sentence as royalty had once been enough to provoke a scornful reprimand from Mr. Carson. But again he seemed more pleased by the fact of Ryder's knowledge and less concerned about the impropriety of mixing social classes in so many words.

"A very fine idea, Mr. Ryder! I'll mention it to Mr. Barrow. _And_ to His Lordship on Monday."

They chattered on, but Thomas was distracted. Had he ever seen Mr. Carson act like this? Thomas searched his memory. He recalled once walking in on Mr. Carson instructing a young footman - the irritatingly earnest Alfred Nugent - on the identification of various pieces of silverware. Spoons it had been. Thomas had felt slighted, in a way. Mr. Carson had taken to Alfred and encouraged him in his work at Downton Abbey and his pursuit of a career as a chef. Alfred's subsequent success remained a point of pride to the former butler.

Daniel Ryder's voice broke in on him again.

"Mr. Molesley mentioned a cricket match in Ripon on Sunday. Would you like to go, Mr. Carson?"

Thomas heard the delight in Mr. Carson's voice. "I would!" he declared. "I haven't gone to a local match in years!"

Even Thomas knew how much Mr. Carson enjoyed cricket. The annual match between the house and the village had been one of the few points where their interests intersected and where Thomas, as the star player, won the older man's unqualified approval. Life in service did, indeed, make anything but reading about local matches almost impossible. And yet, as before, it struck Thomas that Mr. Carson was as pleased by the invitation itself as by the prospect of an afternoon of cricket.

Thomas retreated across the Great Hall, moving almost without thinking about it toward the servants' stairs. Information _was_ valuable and Thomas had learned a few things in these several minutes, but he could not spend all day lurking outside the door and he wanted to think about what he'd heard. The image of Mr. Carson and Alfred in the dining room returned to his mind, but ... it didn't seem like quite the right fit. There was some other scene to which he'd been privy, something more recent, that better reflected the dynamic between the two men, but he couldn't quite call it to mind.

Well, it would come to him.

As he descended the stairs, Thomas came to a resolution. He did not know what possessed Mr. Carson or why. But he _would_ know Mr. Ryder's secrets.

 *** A/N1:** A guest reviewer inquired about the passage of time thus far in the series, and it seemed like a good idea to indicate this overtly. This chapter and the subsequent one take place on Friday August 27, 1926. It is the longest day of a very long episode, but there were many things that needed to be accomplished before Episode 5.

 ****A/N2.** This information about the goblets and Prince Alfred is something that comes up in _Enough of That_ , Chapter 5 The Butler of Downton Abbey. The details about Prince Alfred, apart from his association with Robert's father and the wedding gift to Robert and Cora, are true. And Alanson Houghton's family fortune _is_ the famous Corning Glass Works.


	15. Chapter 15

**DOWNTON ABBEY**

 **Episode 4 Chapter 5 (!)**

 _ **Still Friday August 26**_ _ **th**_ _ **, 1926**_

 **Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson**

"Tea?"

It wasn't really a question. Mrs. Patmore stood at the sitting room door laden with a tray, and Mrs. Carson, who hadn't expected this early afternoon diversion, waved her in with pleasure.

"Whatever you're making for dinner smells delicious," the housekeeper said, moving to the small side table where they could sit across from each other.

"It's only him and her tonight. I thought I'd make them something nice," Mrs. Patmore said with a shrug. She ignored the look on her friend's face that was plainly asking what the Crawleys had done to warrant such consideration. Instead, she poured the tea.

"How's Daisy?" Daisy had, of late, become a more interesting topic of conversation than was usually the case.

"Oh, settled down a bit, but she's still determined."

"I'll be sorry to see her go, for your sake," Mrs. Carson said sympathetically. "I think she could make something of herself if she'd only take a reasoned approach and not be flying off the handle all the time."

Mrs. Patmore fixed the housekeeper with a doubtful look. "We can look to see that about the same time we see Mr. Barrow settling down with a nice girl from the village."

Mrs. Carson had rather more faith in Daisy, but decided not to press the issue. "Have you spoken to Mr. Mason about her?"

It was a rational shift in this conversation, but Mrs. Patmore knew it was a loaded question. She took a deep breath. It was this, really, that had brought her to visit the housekeeper. "Well, yes. Of course I have."

"It's given you a reason to see each other," Mrs. Carson went on hopefully.

Mrs. Patmore summoned her not-inconsiderable reserves of courage. "I wanted to talk to you about that." She almost wavered at the eager look that came over her friend.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Yes," Mrs. Patmore said firmly. "I mean ... no, there isn't. There's nothing you can do."

It was an odd response and Mrs. Carson frowned a little. "What do you mean?"

The cook deflated a little. "I know you mean well," she said in a kindly way, as though she were letting Mrs. Carson down easily, "...but it's not on, him and me. Not like you think. Not like you want."

Mrs. Carson cocked her head to one side, still puzzled. "I don't understand."

"Yes, you do." A slightly aggressive note entered into Mrs. Patmore's voice. It was an uncomfortable enough conversation without deliberate misunderstanding. She'd rather hoped to get by with indirect allusions, rather than having to spell it out. "You want us to ... get together."

"I thought that's what _you_ wanted, that you were going that way. And I want you to be happy."

Mrs. Patmore softened again. "I appreciate that. I do."

"It's all right, marriage." That was an understatement. Speaking openly of her relationship with Mr. Carson somewhat discomfited Mrs. Carson. But this was Mrs. Patmore, so she persisted. "I hoped you could be as happy as I am."

And there it was. Mrs. Patmore had eventually discerned the cause of her own unease in her interaction with Mr. Mason and now Mrs. Carson had put it into words. "I couldn't be as happy as you if I were married to Rudolph Valentino - God rest his soul - and living in Buckingham Palace," she said bluntly. "And settling for less isn't what I want." *****

"Well, Mr. Carson isn't exactly Rudolph Valentino," Mrs. Carson said, with a tender smile for her husband, "and I'm glad enough about that!"

"You know what I mean."

Mrs. Carson sighed. She did. "There's a lot to be said for not being alone," she said.

The cook nodded. "I know. And I may end up regretting it as I sit alone in my cottage. But...," she hesitated, "...the thing is, I want what you have."

They were both a little embarrassed at that. They both knew that Mrs. Patmore understood more than most exactly what it was the Carsons had. An intimate conversation with Mr. Carson about his understanding and expectations of marriage had made that crystal clear. It had been an uncomfortable exchange, but in the long run what remained with Mrs. Patmore was the former butler's passionate love for the woman who was to become his wife.

"I've seen the way you are, you two," Mrs. Patmore explained. "And for a while, I thought - ridiculously - that that's just how it worked out for everyone. Even though I know differently. But...watching you at dinner the other night...the way you look at each other, and work together, and how you talk to each other, you're not even aware of it... Well. Mr. Mason is a very nice man. And I care about him. But not like that." She said this flatly but firmly. It was the truth.

"Oh, dear. And I wanted to bring you together."

"You can't ... make that happen."

"Well, it took time, in our case," Mrs. Carson said. " _Lots_ of time. As you well know."

Mrs. Patmore shook her head. "It was there with you for a long time. You rattled each other right along. It was service - and your stubbornness and his thick-headedness - that kept you apart as long as it did."

"Well, I don't know about that," Mrs. Carson said critically, trying to ignore those unflattering words. "But I am sorry, Mrs. Patmore."

Their eyes met.

"I am, too," Mrs. Patmore said simply.

 **Mr. Molelsey and Miss Baxter**

They were having a picnic in the shadow of the Temple of Diana on the east lawn, on the far side of the folly so they would be out of sight from the house. It would not do for the family to be gazing out a window at Her Ladyship's maid and the local schoolteacher sprawled there so informally. Miss Baxter was sensitive to this, but she doubted Mr. Molelsey had given a thought to the Crawleys' sensibilities in choosing the spot. It was more that the view looking away from the house was one of his favourites.

Miss Baxter had brought a basket from the Downton kitchen and Mr. Molesley was relishing its contents.

"Mmmmm," he murmured, with obvious delight. "I miss Mrs. Patmore's sandwiches. And cakes. And soups. And eggs and kippers and sausages!"

They both laughed.

"Do you want to come back, then?" Miss Baxter asked, teasing him.

"No. _No._ I'm all right." He was emphatic on that point. "But it's ... difficult ... learning to cook, at my age. You know, something more than scrambled eggs and toast. At every meal." They smiled at each other again, she sympathetically because she knew he was not being untruthful. "My dad, he's got quite handy in the kitchen. But I haven't cooked for myself most of my life." He paused. "Ever, really."

"What about Mr. Ryder? Does he cook?" It puzzled some downstairs at Downton why Mr. Molesley had taken in boarder, but Miss Baxter had not been at all surprised by the teacher's spontaneous offer of accommodation to the man he had met at the post office. Mr. Molesley had a generous heart. And though he appreciated the liberty of his own dwelling, that he was a little lonely, too. He had never lived alone before.

"No," Mr. Molesley said. "Doesn't need to, does he? He takes breakfast, lunch, and tea at the Abbey every day."

"Does he join you for dinner?"

"Not so far. And ... it's odd, that. I mean, he's only getting a pittance from Mr. Carson. From the research funds, that is. And he's paying for his room at the cottage. Not much, but...still. But he's gone down to the pub every night this week. I can't see how he can keep that up."

Miss Baxter was bemused. "That sounds peculiar." Although she was a lady's maid, which was one of the better paid positions in the house, she could hardly have managed such an extravagance. "Do you like him?"

Mr. Molesley's face lit up, as it did when he was enthusiastic about something. "I do! He's very companionable. He comes back to the cottage at the end of the afternoon, types up his notes for the day, goes off to the pub, and then comes back promptly. We've had some very interesting conversations. He's very easy to talk to."

"I've noticed that. He's very comfortable in the servants' hall." It took something special to set a sensitive soul like Miss Baxter at ease and though she was still a little shy with Daniel Ryder, she was not discomfited by his presence.

" _And_ he gets on well with Mr. Carson. Which is not always easy," Molesley added. " _Ever_ easy," he added. He had never found his footing where Mr. Carson was concerned. Thinking of the formidable former butler of Downton Abbey, reminded Molesley of something else. "Speaking of Mr. Carson, Mrs. Crawl... - I mean - _Lady Merton_ \- stopped in yesterday."

This did surprise Miss Baxter. "Stopped in? At your cottage, you mean? What for?"

A serious look descended on Molesley, somewhat out of keeping with his relaxed demeanor of today. "She wants to put on a grand dinner. For some of her new associates, I expect. She's never done it before. Anyhow, she asked me if I would ... act as butler, to help her plan and manage it."

"That's an honour!" Miss Baxter declared.

Molesley only shrugged.

Responding to his mood, Miss Baxter added, "But how could you do it, with school and all?"

"Well, I couldn't," he said. "It's a big undertaking. I don't even think I could do it if I wanted to."

"Oh, I'm sure you could!"

He smiled faintly, pleased at her faith in him. "No," he said. "And I'm not being modest here. This isn't like an informal luncheon. She wants a big formal dinner party, with a dozen guests or more. Only she hasn't got the staff on hand, with only a cook and a maid. That's not enough. Not _nearly_ enough," he added vehemently. "A _lot_ of work goes into a party like that. Mr. Carson, it would be nothing to him. Did you see his article in _The Sketch_?"

Miss Baxter embraced this abrupt digression. "I did. Her Ladyship gives me her copy of the magazine when she's through with it. I always bring it down to the servants' hall so everyone can enjoy it." She smiled faintly. "I've even seen Mr. Bates leafing through it."

Molesley was diverted in his turn. "Mr. Bates!" he scoffed.

"Mrs. Patmore was annoyed that Mr. Carson only talked about the organization of the dinner, not the food."

They exchanged understanding glances at this. It was very easy to imagine Mrs. Patmore's indignation.

"Well, then, you know what's involved in such a dinner."

"So you said 'no,'" Miss Baxter surmised.

"Ye-e-es," Molesley said cautiously."And I didn't mind doing so."

Miss Baxter frowned. She was highly attuned to Mr. Molesley's temper and she heard in his words a hint of resentment, which was not at all like him. "Is there something else?" It was, perhaps, an impertinent question on her part, but they were growing more closely together and she was becoming less concerned about making personal inquiries. Mr. Molesley's confidence regarding the war and her own confessions about her past had broken a lot of ice between them.

Mr. Molesley did not speak for a moment, seeming to be gathering his thoughts. "I ... worked for Mrs. ... Lady Merton - Mrs. Crawley, as she was then - when she first came to Downton," he began solemnly. "His Lordship hired me to be butler and valet at Crawley House to Mrs. Crawley and her son, Mr. Matthew Crawley. I worked for her for eight years. Then Mr. Crawley and Lady Mary got married and, not right away, but eventually, he realized that he needed a valet, so I went with him."

Miss Baxter knew this story already, but she understood that it was necessary background to the point Mr. Molesley wanted to make, so she listened attentively.

"They all wanted me to and I liked the idea of working at the big house. But then... Mr. Matthew died - killed in a car crash - and suddenly I didn't have a job." He paused and then took a deep breath. It had been a difficult time for him and Miss Baxter appreciated that it took something from him to speak about it.

"They let me stay on at the Abbey, for a while. Six months, actually. It was kind of His Lordship. And of Mr. Carson." There was sincerity in Molesley's words at this. It _had_ been kind of them to let him linger so long. "I applied for positions but nothing came of them. I moved back in with my dad. And I did any work I could find - delivering for Bakewells', mending the roads. It was ... demeaning."

On impulse, Miss Baxter reached out and took his hand in hers. He gave her a quick smile of appreciation.

He swallowed hard. "In desperation, really, I went to Mrs. Crawley and asked if she would consider giving me my old job back. Nothing had changed in her circumstances. She needed a butler neither no more nor less than she had ever done. But..." His voice suddenly hardened in a way that was uncharacteristic of Joe Molesley in Miss Baxter's acquaintance with him, "...she said no. Even though she knew how I was living. And I...well, it was a dark time for me and I think ...," he stumbled a little over these words, bitterness mingled with indignance, "...a woman like her, who _likes_ to help people, ... well, she did nothing for me." His eyes came up suddenly to meet Miss Baxter's. "I'm not saying that she had to. She had no formal obligation. It was her choice. But ... she chose _not_ to help me. And now," he drew himself up rigidly, "I'm choosing, too." He stared at Miss Baxter as though daring her to challenge him.

She was not about to do so. "But...you said yes to Mr. Barrow," she said, puzzled by the apparent incongruity of his responses.

"Oh, that's different," he said immediately. "Acting as a footman for a dinner or two is not much. _And_ Mr. Carson did give me a job. Admittedly as a footman. And ... well," he flushed nervously, "it's at Downton Abbey. There are ... other... Well, I feel I can manage that," he finished hastily.

Miss Baxter smiled at him, encouraged by his discomfort. They said so little directly to each other that they were obliged to rely on more subtle clues.

"It's just that... I feel no obligation to Lady Merton, is all," he added. He lapsed into silence, his eyes shifting toward her and away, as though awaiting her judgment on this.

But Miss Baxter was not inclined to be judgmental and she would have come down in this instance on his side in any case. She believed in loyalty, but also that loyalty was reciprocal. The Crawleys, Lady Grantham in particular, had been very kind to her and thus won her allegiance. But Mr. Molesley's account suggested that there had never been such a bond between him and Lady Merton. He owed her nothing.

"There's something I want to say to you," she said abruptly.

He looked up alertly, sensitive to the almost business-like tone of her words. "Oh?"

She smiled at him in reassurance. "It's about what you told me about the war." He blanched at this, expecting the worst, no doubt, but she pressed on. "I told you I'd help you in any way I can."

He relaxed a little, but shook his head. "I don't think there's much to be done," he said with a sigh.

"But there is," she went on forcefully. "That is, you can't undo the past, no. But you can alleviate your...guilt...by making amends." He was staring at her now, hanging on her words. " _I_ couldn't do that for my ...crime." She still stumbled over the facts of her waywardness. "I'd given away the jewels. I couldn't get them back. And if I worked for a hundred years, I couldn't even pay for them. I could only be punished." A tremor ran through her at the memory of her three years in prison. She tried to shake it off by focusing on Mr. Molesley. "But your...transgression...is different."

"Yes, it _is_ different," he agreed grimly. "I have nothing to give."

Compassion swept her for his grief over this. "Oh, I don't think that's so," she said earnestly. "You have so _much_ to give. It's just not...tangible. Not like jewels." She tightened her grip on his hand. "Think about it. _Pray_ over it. It'll come to you. I know it will."

He studied her for a long moment. "You think I can find redemption," he said cautiously, but with a note of hope.

She smiled at him. "I do, Mr. Molesley."

 **Charlie and Elsie**

For the second Friday running, Elsie was welcomed home at the end of the day by Shep and no one else. Oh, Charlie was in the cottage. As she came through the door she heard his voice and the increasingly familiar tones of Daniel Ryder ringing boisterously from within, this time from the kitchen. Elsie made a bit of a fuss over Shep for his loyalty and then, taking a moment to fortify herself for the encounter, she headed for the kitchen to announce her presence.

Charlie emerged just as she reached the door.

"I was just coming to see where you were," he declared, leaning down to kiss her hello. Then he took her hand and drew her into the kitchen. "We've been making dinner."

She'd assumed as much, but it was still somewhat disconcerting to see evidence of the two men's efforts - meat, vegetables, and dessert even, all ready to go, and some of the washing up already done, cutlery and bowls drying on the sideboard. Daniel Ryder turned to face her and Charlie went to stand beside him, the two of them grinning and clearly pleased as punch with themselves.

"Well. So, you know all about cooking, too, Mr. Ryder," she said, trying to make it sound like a compliment, although the fact of it only added to her uneasiness about him.

"Not a bit, Mrs. Carson," he said modestly and waved toward the man beside him. "Mr. Carson told me what to do, every step of the way. I just did it."

"It was like old times," Charlie said with a sigh, "supervising the staff."

As far as Elsie could see it was hardly 'old times' at all. Both men had discarded their jackets and neither wore ties, and Daniel Ryder's sleeves were rolled up. She had never seen such informality at the Abbey, even in the kitchen. Charlie, she could see, was in a very good mood and Daniel Ryder quite cheerful, too. She felt like the odd one out.

"Let's go into the sitting room," Charlie said abruptly. "Everything in here is ready to go when we want it."

There was a surprise in the sitting room as well. Three cases sat in the middle of the floor. Not recognizing them, Elsie looked up sharply at Mr. Ryder.

"Are you moving in?"

"No," Ryder said affably, slipping by her to move the cases to one side. "I'm quite comfortable at Mr. Molesley's."

"I decided to work on His Lordship's papers here," Charlie explained. "Mr. Spratt was being obstreperous and I didn't see how I would get on. Mr. Ryder helped me bring them by after tea. We used his cases." He glanced at the young man. "I'll empty them this evening and return them to you."

"There's no hurry, Mr. Carson. I'm not going anywhere."

He said that with such finality, Elsie thought.

"Would you like to join us for supper? There's certainly enough." An innate politeness obliged Elsie to make the offer. Moving the papers might be construed as part of his work, but making dinner wasn't. But she hoped he would decline.

He did. "Thank you, no," he said. "I'd like to type up my notes while I can still read them." Turning to Charlie, he added, "I'll bring round the work's week on Sunday."

"Sunday?"

The two of them looked her way.

"We're going to a cricket match in Ripon," Charlie replied, his manner a little subdued, perhaps realizing that he might have talked it over with her first. "Mr. Ryder saw a notice in the paper this morning and asked if I'd like to go along."

And of course he wanted to. Over the years the butler of Downton Abbey had dropped few clues about those things in which he took personal pleasure, but everyone knew he had strong feelings about cricket.

"You'll enjoy yourself," Elsie said generously. However odd it might be that Daniel Ryder should issue such an invitation, she would not deny her dear husband that pleasure.

"Would you like to join us, Mrs. Carson?"

She gave Mr. Ryder a smile for that. "No. Thank you. I'm not a devotee of the game."

He took his leave then, waving off Charlie's impulse to see him to the door.

"What is it?"

Elsie looked up to see her husband staring at her and realized she'd been staring after Daniel Ryder. "Nothing," she said, brushing off his concern and holding out a hand to him. He came to her, slipping his arms around her and holding her close. She rested her head on his broad chest and listened to the rhythmic beating of his great heart. And thought that Daniel Ryder's casual exit suggested that he was very comfortable in their home.

Elsie went up to change and Charlie put the supper on and soon they were enjoying quite a nice meal with one of Elsie's favourite wines. It was one of their extravagances and it allowed Charlie to keep his hand in a bit.

"So what did you talk to Mr. Ryder about today?" Elsie asked, thinking that she was going to hear all about it anyway and might as well try to be interested.

They'd talked about everything, it seemed. She heard all about Prince Alfred, the crystal goblets and the American Ambassador. "I mentioned it straightaway to Mr. Barrow. He responded indifferently." And about how much work Mr. Ryder was getting done. "He's compiling three different timelines - one for the family, one of Yorkshire history, and one on a national scale. The story I'm going to tell is going to move between these levels, depending on the involvement of the family at different times. Once I get going with the letters and diaries, he'll type up my notes, as well as his own." And there was, of course, more about Mr. Ryder himself. "He spent four years in Palestine, Elsie. In the _Holy Land_! He's been to the Church of the Nativity! He was with General Allenby's forces when they entered Jerusalem! He's walked the Via Dolorosa!"

"I can't imagine it," Elsie said softly, almost as impressed as Charlie was at the thought of being so near to someone who had seen such wonders. Elsie didn't have many regrets about her life, but among these was her geographical limitations. Charlie didn't care about foreign parts, but he'd at least been to France. She'd travelled only as far as London and hadn't even seen much of that. But even as she recalled the few photographic images she'd come across of Palestine, she felt once more that niggling sense of concern about Mr. Ryder. Why would a man like that come _here_? She decided to shift the conversation.

"Tell me about Mr. Spratt," she said.

The glow that enveloped Charlie when he spoke of Daniel Ryder dissipated immediately. " _Him_ ," he said contemptuously, and a scowl took form on his face. "I spent the first few days this week in the attics of the Dower House, opening boxes and trunks, just _finding_ all the family papers. No one has ever looked at them," he added. "Her Ladyship the Dowager has not had need for them. I was prepared to start reading yesterday afternoon but I'm not about to do that in the attics, with the dust and the dimness and some evidence of mice."

"Well, the place is big enough," Elsie remarked. "Finding you a brightly-lit corner ought not to be such a difficult proposition."

"You would _think_ so," Charlie agreed. "But Mr. Spratt is not happy with my presence there. So first he suggested servants' hall - with Miss Denker lurking about! And then a crevice off the kitchen. I indicated that he would have to do better, and he found another couple of nooks, but nothing suited, and I began to wonder if I wouldn't just be better off here where I don't have to answer to some self-important servant."

Elsie's mouth twisted a little as she tried to stifle a laugh at that. As the butler of Downton Abbey, her Mr. Carson had always operated with dignity and honour, but she could well imagine that there were at least a few people out there somewhere who would characterize him in the same terms as he had just done Mr. Spratt.

He knew that expression well enough and frowned at her. "I entered that closet he calls a butler's pantry this morning and he snapped at me!" he said indignantly. "I _nterrupting his work_ , he said. When all he was doing was reading letters and _not_ , I might add, letters to do with the management of the Dower House."

"How do you know that?"

"Because one of them began _Dear Aunt Agatha_ ," he replied sarcastically. "It was for that...foolishness he spouts for the magazine."

Well! This was gossip worth knowing! "So it _is_ him, then?"

"Yes," Charlie said grudgingly. "I overheard the Dowager mentioning it to Miss Denker." His indignation was building to new heights. "I cannot believe Mr. Spratt burdening Her Ladyship with such nonsense!"

"Perhaps he didn't," Elsie said pertly, her eyes twinkling at him. "Perhaps the Dowager overheard him telling someone. I must say _I'm_ a little taken aback that you, of all people, are reading other people's correspondence and eavesdropping on conversations!"

She was teasing him and he did know it, but his mouth tightened into a straight line of suppressed exasperation. "The letter was in plain view and there isn't much room in his ... pantry," he said acidly. " _I'm_ not the one who listens at keyholes," he added tightly, giving her a knowing look.

She only smiled at him. "Apparently you are."

"May we move on?"

"So you've brought all the Granthams' papers over here to clutter up our cottage, instead."

"Elsie."

"I don't mind," she said, easing off on him. He was the most meticulously tidy person she knew. "I'm sure you'll be more comfortable here than with Mr. Spratt looking over your shoulder all the time. Or you looking over his." Before he could react, she reached for his plate and began to clear the table. "Why don't we take the rest of this bottle into the sitting room and forget about Mr. Spratt and the Crawleys for a little while?"

There was a time when he would have been unable wholly to purge the family from his mind, but happily those days were gone. He got up to help her and, what with pausing to exchange small kisses between trips to the table, it took twice as long to get everything sorted.

"How are you feeling this evening?" he murmured, sliding his arms around her as she filled the sink to soak the pots.

She knew exactly what he meant. "Quite well, thank you," she said brightly, tilting her head to allow him to nuzzle her neck. "Dividing the work _has_ made a difference."

"Mmmm. Madge is working out then." His arms tightened about her. "She seems rather young to take on that job," he added in a distracted voice, not paying complete attention even to himself.

Elsie glanced at him. "No more than _we_ were."

He sighed a little. "That seems a hundred years ago."

Now she turned around within his embrace that she might bask in the warmth of his loving gaze. "Maybe I should be asking how _you're_ feeling this evening."

He answered her with a long probing kiss. They left the wine on the table and skipped the sitting room altogether.

For once he didn't fall asleep right after and so they lay quietly together, her fingertips tracing the fine line of his collarbone and he running his hand through her hair. They took great pleasure in such innocent but intimate gestures. The formality of their long life together at Downton made all liberties dear. Elsie was thinking they ought, perhaps, to retire earlier more often if it led such a satisfying denouement. _This was how it should always be_.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

She stirred at the sound of his voice. "What?"

He repeated the question.

It took a moment to focus her thoughts. "I suppose I believe that there is sometimes an immediate attraction to another person. And that the realization of that can be quite exciting, exhilarating even." As she spoke she flattened her hand against his chest and rubbed it over the tantalizing curve of his shoulder and wondered why it had taken her quite so long to realize just how attractive he was. "But I don't think love, _real_ love, is something that happens in a flash," she added, her prosaic nature asserting itself. " _Real_ love has a more substantial foundation and takes time to grow." As they had ample evidence.

He squirmed a little. "So it's never happened to you, then."

She tilted her face up to his, although she could not discern his features in the darkness. "You know it hasn't." Why he was thinking of this, and _now_ , she could not say.

"Me either," he said flatly and then lapsed into silence once more. His arms tightened about her and she tucked her head beneath his chin and smiled against him as the warmth of his body radiated through her. After a while his even breathing told her that he had drifted off into the slumber of the contented. She wished she could fall asleep with such ease.

 _Love at first sight_. He said he had never experienced it. But he had. Those were the very words he always used to describe how his relationship with Lady Mary had begun. And they went a long way to explaining his steadfast devotion to that young woman who, in so many ways, stood at odds with his personality and his principles.

And as she turned it over in her mind, it occurred to her that his question might not have come so out of the blue as it seemed. And that it might, too, make sense out of the oddly buoyant air that had enveloped him all week.

 **Thomas in the Night**

It had been a while since he'd felt the need for a late-night walk, but this night Thomas was impatient to put the Abbey behind him and to immerse himself in his own thoughts. The letter had been burning a hole in his breast pocket since he'd first seen it in the afternoon post. One of the advantages of being butler, one of many, was the responsibility for distributing the mail. For someone as inquisitive about the doings of all those around him as Thomas was, this was a great boon, for it gave him knowledge of who was corresponding with whom. At the same time, it ensured that his own communications remained private.

As he had been sorting the mail earlier, the sight of the German stamp on an envelope addressed to him made his heart skip a beat. He turned it over quickly and yes, there it was, _Erich Miller_ and a return address. _Berlin_. And then he had to put it away because there was no time to look at it then. He'd tucked it into an inner pocket and then struggled for the rest of the afternoon and all evening to contain his excitement. _He said he'd write_. But Thomas had known other men to make promises and then let them fall by the wayside.

Finally, when dinner was over and he could withdraw to the butler's pantry with some expectation of solitude, he'd opened the letter.

 _Lieber Thomas_ ...

He could hear Erich's voice as his eyes moved over the script, with his distinct pronunciation of Thomas's name.

Thomas wasn't much of a correspondent. There were a few people with whom he exchanged news every once in a while, but his notes rarely filled a page. Erich had written two. He revealed his purpose at the very beginning, extending to Thomas the promised invitation to visit Berlin - _Think of October_ \- offering accommodations and friendship. _Friendship_. Thomas smiled at that. The bulk of the letter detailed the hospitality that Thomas might expect to find in the open city, much of it only what Erich had already said about Berlin. He read it through three times, his eyes shifting distractedly to the specific words of invitation. And then he folded it up carefully, returned it to its envelope, tucked it into his pocket, and left the Abbey. It was a warm night, but the heat Thomas felt under his collar had little to do with the weather. He needed to walk it off.

And to corral his disappointment. Because it was a fantasy, as it had been when Erich first mentioned it. Thomas Barrow was the butler of Downton Abbey and the butler didn't pack his bags and leave the family to fend for themselves for a week or two. Had Mr. Carson ever even taken a holiday? Well, there was the honeymoon. But that was the point, wasn't it? If there was some dire family emergency - the Crawleys wouldn't begrudge a butler a deathbed vigil - or some extraordinary domestic (and socially sanctioned) event such as a marriage, it would be possible. A foray to the continent for a good time hardly fit that category. Thomas felt the bile of bitterness in his throat. His need for the adventure Erich was offering was no less imperative, to his mind, than honeymoon solitude was for the Carsons, but no one else would see it as legitimate. As was always the case, Thomas's life fell outside the "norm" and nothing in it either acknowledged or accommodated by society.

He put a hand in his pocket and came out with his cigarettes. His hands were almost shaking with frustration as he lit it. Incidentally he noticed that his feet had taken him, not to the cottages in the lane where the blissfully wed slumbered in peace, but to the village, with its darkened streets. They did not have street lamps in Downton Village. There was no crime of note here and few self-respecting residents were given to nocturnal strolls. One could enjoy the peace of silence at this hour. Or be overcome with a profound sense of loneliness.

Even alone on the narrow village streets, Thomas walked softly, the cobblestones abetting his cat-like tread. As always he remained alert, even in his distraction, because it was in his nature always to be vigilant. And so he heard the telltale indications of another's presence as soon as there was something to be heard. Heavy breathing, a shuffling step. Thomas's eyes, by this time well-accustomed to the darkness of the night, darted about him, seeking out the source. His own body tensed as he searched, not out of concern for himself, but because the sounds signified distress. And then he saw the figure, halted by the corner of the milliner's shop, one hand clutching at the stone wall for support.

"Bloody hell!" Thomas swore, rushing forward.

Dr. Clarkson, swaying where he stood, fell against the younger man. Thomas recoiled from the stench of alcohol that enveloped him. It struck him physically, with his nose wrinkling as he inhaled a whisky-scented fire. The man's disheveled state, visible in the muted light of a shadowed moon, struck Thomas almost as viscerally as the fumes, for the doctor was always a model of sartorial perfection. Though taken by surprise, the butler did not hesitate to act. Glancing about vigilantly, hoping that no one else was feeling restless, Thomas slipped an arm around the doctor to hold him steady.

"Let's just get you home, shall we?" he said, his voice quiet and cajoling. He was grateful when the doctor relaxed against him.

As they walked - stumbled - down the deserted street together, Thomas's mind stirred with a myriad of thoughts. How fortunate it was that he'd felt the need for a brisk walk tonight! The doctor's stellar reputation in the village would be tarnished, possibly beyond repair, if the wrong person had found him. If _anyone else_ had found him. Was this the first time Clarkson had gotten into such a state? Thomas _was_ shocked. Dissipation was an occupational hazard of butlers, with their ready access to wine cellars and the enforced social solitude of their lives. But a doctor? The doctor had always struck Thomas as such a steady fellow.

No. Wait. Frankly, the doctor had never struck him in any way at all. He was just there. He was _always_ there. Married to his work, devoted to his patients. And nothing else.

This revelation of his indifference to Clarkson prompted a momentary introspection. Thomas knew well enough from his own experience that work was not the be-all-and-end-all, that everyone needed and sought meaning in their lives in terms of emotional satisfaction. Even Mr. Carson, to Thomas's ongoing irritation. And where was Dr. Clarkson to find his solace?

"At least you're a quiet drunk," Thomas murmured, as he unlatched the doctor's door and dragged him into the passage. ******

 **END OF EPISODE 4**

 ***A/N1.** Rudolph Valentino had just died, on August 15, 1926. He was thirty-one.

 ****AN2.** Blasphemy, perhaps. But Dr. Clarkson was in need of a story and there is a point to this. More to come...


	16. Chapter 16

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **Episode 5. Chapter 1.**

 _ **Monday September 6, 1926**_

 **Downstairs Breakfast**

Downtown Abbey was always awhirl with activity at daybreak with maids and footmen alike sweeping through the main rooms - polishing, dusting, vacuuming, opening shutters, laying the table, collecting glasses left out by the family the night before - and the senior staff members darting between floors, supervising work as well as attending to their own more specific duties. But the second week in September opened with an even greater level of energy. Mrs. Carson had been easing out of the early morning responsibilities, leaving those in Madge's capable hands, but on this Monday morning she was there at dawn. Perfection demanded the attention of every available eye. Mr. Barrow was also above stairs, monitoring the footmen - _both_ of them.

The staff assembled for breakfast, standing respectfully by their chairs until Thomas came in, sitting only after he sat. It was a gesture of deference that he enjoyed every time. Before they could lapse into conversation among themselves, he cleared his throat. He had announcements to make.

"A few of you have already met him, but I would like formally to introduce Lewis Stairs, our new footman." It was evident that the butler took some satisfaction in making this pronouncement. They all knew he'd been advertising for some time without success. And the new footman had already made an impression. He was good-looking and experienced, and had gone about his duties this first morning at Downton without troubling anyone else.

The staff exchanged warm words with the new recruit, the maids eyeing him hopefully until Mrs. Carson's reprimanding glare cut them cold. Madge had yet to perfect such a skill.

"I would also like to thank Mrs. Carson," Thomas continued, "for her willingness to extend her hours this week in order to make sure that Downton is at its best when Mr. Alanson Houghton, the Ambassador of the United States...," Thomas's tone reflected the honour that such a visit bestowed on Downton; Mr. Carson announcing the arrival of a duke would have sounded the same. "...comes to Downton on Friday."

Mrs. Carson acknowledged Thomas's consideration with an appreciative nod. They had always rubbed along well enough with each other, certainly better than Mr. Carson and Thomas ever had, but for Thomas to take this special notice was a bit of a departure for him.

"And Mr. Molesley will be joining us as footman for the dinner on Friday night, as planned," Thomas went on. Miss Baxter smiled faintly at this. "That will be the most formal of the meals. On Saturday the party will attend the races in Doncaster and we're not quite sure yet whether any of the family will remain at home. The dinner on Sunday will be a small family affair."

The staff absorbed these remarks and then followed his lead in digging into their breakfast, reaching for the plates of eggs, sausage, toast, and other foods that Mrs. Patmore and Daisy had set before them.

"I'm wondering who stole away our Mr. Barrow and replaced him with that charming substitute," Mrs. Patmore said, as she and Daisy retreated to the kitchen for more food.

"He only wants everything to go well," Daisy said. "So mind you keep the salt and sugar straight next weekend," she added mischievously.

The cook glared at her. She did not like to be reminded of her errors - few and far between as they were, of course! - and the catastrophe that had been the salted raspberry meringue served to Sir Anthony Strallan still rankled, although less so since he had been banished from the Crawleys' social circle for abandoning Lady Edith at the altar.

"What do you think of Lewis, then?" Mrs. Patmore asked, taking a new direction. Mrs. Patmore had an aesthetic appreciation for a nice looking young man and thought her assistant ought to take more of an interest.

Daisy shrugged. "Another footman. You'd think a man these days would have more ambition."

"Like you, I suppose," Mrs. Patmore said acidly, shaking her head. "Have you come to any conclusions yet, by the way?" She'd held off pressing Daisy on her plans, hoping they would dissipate, or at least that she would cool off and assess her situation more sensibly. "Has anyone answered your letters?"

"I've had a note from Gwen, just a brief one. She's tending to her ailing mother-in-law. She said she'd get back to me. And," she went on more forcefully, "I've also heard from Miss Bunting." She took one of the remaining trays and disappeared into the servants' hall with it. When she returned she added, "Miss Bunting agrees with me about the Crawleys. She says they acted despicably, but what more could you expect from their kind."

Mrs. Patmore was glad that Daisy had the wherewithal to lower her voice as she spoke. You never knew these days when one of the family might make an appearance. Nor would Mr. Barrow tolerate that kind of attitude - not any more. But it was a different aspect of Daisy's words that startled the cook.

"Why'd you tell her about the Drewes, you nit! She didn't need to know that."

"I think she did. How else could I have explained my quandary?"

Mrs. Patmore's eyes rolled at _quandary_. Daisy and her high-falutin' vocabulary! When would she learn that it was character not vocabulary that mattered in the world? "You were supposed to be asking for her advice on your future, not recruiting support for a campaign of moral condemnation and social revolution!" Her exasperation glanced off Daisy. _This used to be easier_ , Mrs. Patmore told herself. "Did she say anything _helpful_?" she demanded.

"She said she'd give it some thought," Daisy said, "and that in the meantime, I ought not to give them the satisfaction of quitting in a huff."

Mrs. Patmore parsed that statement, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of a sarcastic rejoinder, and then decided that, as Miss Bunting's advice so far was almost consistent with her own, she would hold her tongue. "Well...good." If it wasn't quite the more concrete direction she had hoped for from that educated woman, it at least forestalled precipitate action on Daisy's part and that was something.

At the table, conversation revolved around the impending visit.

"What a great fuss over an American!" Madge said. She was one of the senior servants now, or almost so, and addressed her comments to them.

Mrs. Carson, separated from Madge by Daniel Ryder, contemplated a reproof. "Ours not to wonder why," she said circumspectly. She did not think it appropriate to take too hard of a line with her housekeeping assistant, but it was clearly necessary to remind her, however obliquely, that it was not the place of the downstairs residents to question the goings-on upstairs.

"It's like he's royalty, though," Madge went on, the housekeeper's subtlety lost on her.

"Well, he is, in a way," Daniel Ryder said amiably. "The American _are_ the new royalty."

"Isn't that a contradiction in terms?" Mrs. Carson asked, giving him a sharp look. " _American_ royalty?"

"Royalty of wealth, not birth. And the only reason they're not running the world, or most of it - yet - is because they can't be bothered," he went on. "It's in our interests, the interests of Britain, to cultivate their good will. In any future conflicts in Europe or, indeed, around the world, it would be well to have the Americans on our side."

Ryder's disquisition drew Thomas's attention. "That sounds like Foreign Office talk," he drawled, eyeing the other man carefully. "I thought you were with the Colonial Office. At one point."

"I was," Ryder said lightly. "But it's all one fabric, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas exchanged glances with Mrs. Carson and let it go.

She was slightly unsettled by Mr. Ryder's remarks, as she was by almost everything he said. It occurred to her, as it often did, that socially he should be with the people upstairs. _What was he doing here?_ But no satisfactory answer to that question had yet presented itself. Brushing this off, Mrs. Carson leaned toward the butler.

"Well done, Mr. Barrow." She nodded toward the new footman. "Where did you find him?"

Thomas smiled proudly. "An old butler's trick, Mrs. Carson. The advertisements were drawing no one right, so I contacted a few other butlers asking for recommendations. Mr. Erskine at Strathmere in Northumberland put me on t'lad here. He came with sound references and interviewed well. _And_ he knows what he's about." He paused. "Although it is early days," he added cautiously.

Mrs. Carson stifled a smile at this. Mr. Barrow, she thought, sometimes reminded her of someone she knew well.

The Bateses had also joined the staff for breakfast, something that they, like Mrs. Carson, did only infrequently. They were pitching in, too, so as to ensure that Downton looked and functioned at its best for the diplomat's visit. In the past, the social hierarchy of the servants' table had often had them sitting opposite each other, but Mr. Barrow was more flexible than Mr. Carson had ever been and so long as the significant line between senior and junior staff was maintained, he was less concerned with particulars. So the Bateses sat beside each other.

"His Lordship is very excited about the Ambassador's visit," Bates murmured to his wife. "I never thought I'd see the day when he would be so enthusiastic about an American."

"He _is_ married to an American," Anna said, her tone both amused and reproving. "And he's always a gracious host, even if the guests are not so deserving."

"Well, we can hope there won't be a repetition of the German fiasco," Bates said. "Or a Grey episode," he added, alluding to the conflicts that had erupted whenever one of Lord Merton's sons had come to Downton.

"Or anyone's ulcer bursting," Andy added, reminding them all of that dramatic moment when Lord Grantham had vomited blood all over the pristine white table cloth and Minister for Health Neville Chamberlain. Andy drew several disapproving stares for having recalled the incident, and over breakfast at that. His attention returned to his food.

A few minutes later Thomas stood up and everyone rattled to their feet along with him, Daniel Ryder included. It was not, perhaps, incumbent upon him to follow this convention, but not doing so would have set him apart.

"On with our day, then," Thomas said, looking around at them all, and then he withdrew to his pantry.

 **Upstairs Breakfast**

"So this is our new man, Barrow?"

No doubt Barrow was looking for an opportunity to introduce the new footman and Robert, knowing this, gave it to him. Cora, Mary, and Henry looked up politely.

"Yes, my lord," Barrow said immediately. "This is Lewis."

Lewis, who was as tall as Andy and as broad and dark as Barrow, and in age somewhere between the two, executed a formal one-half bow to his employer.

"Welcome to Downton, Lewis." Cora always made an effort.

The footman nodded to her and then retreated into obscurity once more.

"It's good to have Downton running at strength," Robert said with satisfaction. He had not forgotten his opposition to the butler's recommendation for additional staff, but he was pleased now in a different way.

This moment of limelight to the attending servants passed and the conversation at the table moved on.

"We gain a footman," Robert went on, "and we lose a driver. Stark is retiring at the end of the month."

This _was_ news. Cora and Mary were startled, Henry less so. Henry had his own car and was dependent upon no one for transportation.

"We shall have to advertise directly," Mary said forcefully. "We can hardly run an estate with only one drive between us, Papa."

Cora shot an exasperated look at her daughter and then focused on her husband. "It will be a challenge to balance _all_ our schedules," she said.

"I thought we'd give it a try," Robert said carefully, "and see how it goes."

"It won't work," Mary said with such finality that her father wondered why she thought _him_ the reluctant one in the face of changes.

"I can drive you sometimes," Henry told her. "Or," he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "you could learn to drive."

Mary didn't even favour him with a look. "No," she said abruptly. She wasn't ready for that in so many ways.

Cora decided that this wasn't the moment to discuss transportation needs and smoothly shifted the topic. "Having Mr. Houghton here for on the weekend of the St Leger Stakes was an inspiration, darling."

Distracted, Robert beamed. "I thought so. The Foreign Office were pressing for an earlier date, but when I heard that Mr. Houghton enjoyed racing, I held out for September."

"I'm excited about it, too," Mary said. She wasn't going to let go of the chauffeur question, but the St Leger was a compelling subject. "Coronach has taken the Derby and the Eclipse Stakes. He's favoured at the St Leger."

"But unlikely to win," Henry put in. "Only two other horses have won all three."

He drew surprised looks from Mary and Cora.

"And I thought you were a car man," Cora said, teasing him.

Henry shrugged. "I am. But I read the sports pages thoroughly." He grinned to himself, turning back to his breakfast. Mary cared for horse sports and he had begun to take an interest.

Robert was not at all surprised by Henry's informative intervention. He expected all gentlemen to share the interests of their class to some degree and horses were part of that.

"How formal is the formal dinner on Friday, Papa? I thought Ambassador Houghton was coming to Downton to get away from that sort of thing."

"He's looking for an English country weekend," Robert said. "So we're going to have a small formal dinner, the race at Doncaster on Saturday, a bit of shooting on Sunday afternoon and then an _en famille_ Sunday night."

"We've invited Isobel and Dickie," Cora said, responding more directly to Mary's query. "We couldn't really have anyone else without seeming to favour one couple over another. We have any number of friends who would like to meet the ambassador. And Tom is coming, too."

"And Granny." Mary said this carefully and then looked at each of her parents in turn. They had not discussed Granny, although Mary did not think that her grandmother's health had gone unnoticed. It was not the family practice to dwell on adversity, or even to address it until necessary. Clearly they had not yet reached that point for Robert came over impassive and took a sudden interest in his breakfast and Cora said, a little too heartily, "Of course Mama is coming. That goes without saying, Mary."

Conceding to their approach, Mary subsided.

"Tony and Mabel Gillingham will be joining us at Doncaster," Robert said, perhaps hoping to distract her. At one time Robert had hoped that Mary might make a match of it with the easy-going Viscount Gillingham. Mary's rejection of him was less shocking than the revelation that she had spent an intimate week with him in Liverpool before making up her mind. Robert's discovery of this secret had obliged him to re-think his attitude toward his eldest daughter and to appreciate, as he had not entirely done so before, her hard-edged practicality.

Mary was not at all perturbed by the news. She had been more than relieved when Tony had accepted her decision and resumed his relationship with Mabel Lane-Fox and she remained fond of him. "Good!" she said with feeling. "They're both great horse enthusiasts." She glanced at Henry. "You'll like Tony," she told him. Her eyes met her father's briefly, he shaking his head a little at her boldness, she smiling defiantly in return.

"It's a shame Edith will miss Ambassador Houghton," Cora said, missing this exchange between father and daughter. Neither Robert nor Mary had made her privy to this indiscretion. "But they'll be down the next weekend, all three of them." Almost reflexively, Cora glanced Mary's way, anticipating a cutting remark.

"What? I'm glad Edith and Bertie and Marigold are coming to visit." Mary and her mother stared at one another for a long moment. "She is my sister, Mama."

"Yes," Cora said with a sigh.

Mary smiled with a superior air at having surprised Mama. She had her own reasons for looking forward, as she so rarely did, to a visit from Edith.

They had all finished their meal and were preparing to rise.

"What are you doing this morning?" Henry asked Robert out of politeness.

"Walking with Carson, of course," Mary said, smiling in her father's direction. "Unless Granny's project is keeping him too busy." The awkward moment over Violet had passed. This reference to her fell smoothly into the conversation.

"I should object if it did," Robert said firmly. He enjoyed his weekly walks with his former butler for many reasons, not least because he could talk to Carson about almost anything and without fear of criticism.

"Is Carson interviewing you for the book, Papa?"

Robert frowned in mock indignation. "He's writing a _history_ of the family. I'm not history. Yet."

They all laughed at that and separated to go about their day.

 **Thomas and Lewis**

As the family departed, the footmen stepped forward from their unobtrusive posts to clear the table. Thomas watched for a moment. Lewis, he noted with satisfaction, went about his work with a practiced ease that reflected his experience. Andy, Thomas noticed, glanced over at Lewis a few times and looked as though he were trying to catch up. The butler was not perturbed by Andy's unease which was only a natural reaction to the new circumstances. Thus far at Downton, Andy had been almost coddled along. Mr. Carson had demanded a certain standard of work from him, to be sure, but Andy had known no real competition. Molesley, for all his defects from Thomas's perspective, was a generous colleague who never exposed a fellow worker at a disadvantage. And the rest of the staff had taken to Andy from the beginning and had had patience with his few shortcomings. His genial manner and eagerness to serve had also endeared him to the Crawleys, insofar as they had noticed him. Lewis, Thomas suspected, was unlikely to be so careful with Andy. And that, to the butler's mind, was not wholly a bad thing. Informal rivalry had certainly always kept him on _his_ toes.

Thomas was about to leave the dining room in the footmen's capable hands when he noticed Lewis stop to examine the silver sugar bowl. His expression made no secret of his displeasure.

"Lewis?"

The footman's eyes shifted to the butler. He held up the dish. "There's a scratch here, Mr. Barrow."

This did interest Thomas, who strode across the room to take the offending item from Lewis. He examined it closely. His eyes scoured the surface of the sugar bowl twice before he saw it, an infinitesimal blight on the underside. It was the kind of blemish only Mr. Carson would have noticed. It irritated Thomas, for he had _not_ noticed it. But Lewis had.

"Well spotted, Lewis. I shall attend to it myself."

Lewis nodded at the acknowledgment and returned to his work. Heading for the servants' staircase, Thomas congratulated himself on hiring such a perceptive footman. It would be useful to have another pair of sharp eyes about.

 **Robert and Carson**

The sight of Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson and their dogs - the lively yellow lab and the handsome ruffled collie - on the pathways of Downton had become a familiar one to the villagers and tenant farmers. His Lordship in his walking tweeds had, as always, a casual air about him. Though Mr. Carson, no longer the butler of Downton Abbey, also wore walking clothes, his demeanour retained some semblance of the post he had once held in the stiffness of his bearing. It was a reflection of the social relation between the two. However comradely their Monday morning routine, these were still two men from different levels of society and their clothing and manner, as much as anything else, showed this. And yet that it was an amiable relationship was apparent to all, adding to Mr. Carson's already formidable reputation in the village.

This morning they were, naturally, engrossed in conversation about the American Ambassador's visit. It could not be otherwise. It was the event of the season.

"It is a great honour for Downton, my lord," Carson declared, "and a _coup_ for you as well."

Robert glanced at his companion. "Are you turning republican?" he asked mischievously.

Carson knew what His Lordship was about but responded coolly, for being called a republican was even worse than being labelled a liberal. "The United States are a reality with which we must deal, whether we like it or not. Downton must play its part."

Robert forbore to congratulate Carson on his acceptance of the right of the United States to exist, something even King George III - who had lost the "Plantations" in the first place - had been obliged to acknowledge. "We've not much of a part," he said instead. "The ambassador is coming to Downton largely, I think, because I have a reputation as a good host." There was an almost self-deprecating note to his words. They were walking side by side but out of the corner of his eye Robert saw Carson draw himself up in a way that presaged a pronouncement.

"The designation _a good host_ is not to be underrated, my lord. It encompasses the qualities and skills that every good diplomat should hope to have."

"Hmm." Robert hadn't thought of it that way, but Carson's words pleased him. "It'll be a challenge for Barrow," he said.

"One that he will relish," Carson said emphatically. "It will give him an opportunity to show off."

This remark brought a smile to Robert's face. For all his sober demeanour and rigid formality, Carson was a showman by nature and in some corner of his heart and mind had seen Downton as a great stage, its ceremonies and spectacles performances which he, as the butler, had directed. It was an insight into Carson's character which Robert had been granted only after the curtain had come down for the last time.

"You've come along," Robert said mildly, thinking of the butler's depression in the early months of his retirement, as well as his long-standing critical assessment of Barrow.

"I've been working on it," Carson said circumspectly, and then added, "I'm beginning to find some absorbing diversions."

Robert almost laughed aloud. Only Carson, he thought, could describe the joys of marriage in such aloof terms.

"I've been to the cricket matches around the county the last few weekends," Carson went on, with a sudden animation. "I've never had time for them before!"

"What?"

"In Ripon and North Allerton and..."

"Cricket! With Mrs. Carson?"

"No, no," Carson said brusquely. "With Daniel ... with Mr. Ryder. My assistant. It was his idea, as a matter of fact."

"Good golly!" Robert was astonished, on a number of counts. "That sounds like fun!"

"It is."

"Well." It was another side to Carson. Of course Robert knew his former butler had a passion for the game. He had always participated with vigour - and no little skill - in the annual match between the house and the village. But going to matches at the weekend? "He's working out well, then. Your assistant."

"Very well, my lord," Carson said forcefully. "He is a very fine young man."

"Hmm." Robert subsided. Carson's words were hardly effusive but his tone was exuberant. Robert had hardly set eyes on the man who elicited such praise from a normally reticent Carson. Perhaps he ought to look in on the fellow one day. "How's the ... history of the Crawleys ... coming along then?"

That this was another subject close to Carson's heart was immediately apparent. "It's early days, my lord, but I'm enjoying the idea of it - finding and organizing the material, creating a narrative framework, _reading_ about the past - not the distant past, but a past that I remember. Of course, I've only tapped the tip of the iceberg so far. I would have begun chronologically with the first earl, but Her Ladyship the Dowager asked that I start with His Lordship, your father."

"I wonder why that was," Robert mused, in a way that indicated he did not wonder at all. "I want to say that I hope it isn't dull work, Carson, but dullness precludes scandal, so it may be preferable from the family's perspective."

Carson made a dismissive sound. "His Lordship was an admirable man, my lord. And his papers show it." His tone brooked no contradiction, not that Robert was going to offer one. "There was his association with the household of Prince Alfred, _and_ his work in the House of Lords in promoting the Public Health Act..."

"I'd forgotten that."

"... and, of course, he was deeply involved in estate matters - the school, the church, founding the hospital - as well as working with the farmers to improve production. Her Ladyship the Dowager has been very forthcoming with regard to access to all of His Lordship's papers."

"What about Her Ladyship's papers?" Robert asked. "Has she been forthcoming with those?"

Carson either missed or ignored the impudent note in the other's voice. "Her Ladyship wishes to be interviewed," he said.

"Yes, she would." Robert nodded, thinking it so much easier to control the story that way. His mind turned in a different direction. "Tell me, Carson, how do you find Her Ladyship?" They had been making their assessments of Mama, he and Cora, of late, and he thought Mary was growing more concerned as well, though they had not as yet spoken of it together. Carson had a different perspective to offer, but it was no less valuable on this question. Robert waited.

Carson paused. And then the pause grew longer.

The silence was answer enough. Had there been nothing on which to remark, Carson would have issued a blithe "Never better" or "As ever." That he said nothing suggested to Robert that the state of Her Ladyship's health was troubling Carson, too, though he did not feel he had the wherewithal to comment on it.

Robert chose his response carefully. "If there comes a time when you think there is anything I ought to know," he said quietly, "I hope you will be able to come to me, Carson."

Carson's loyalty to the family transcended the generations, a fact of which Robert was very much aware. But Carson remembered, too, what it was to be a son who loved his parents. "I will, my lord."

 **Author's Note:** I have been away from this for a while and am only slowly getting back into it. There should be a steady stream of chapters ahead, though at intervals of days, rather than hours. Alas! There are a few of those complex and challenging-to-write dinner scenes ahead. After Chapter 5 is complete, things ought to move more rapidly. Thank you for your patience. EC


	17. Chapter 17

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **Episode 5. Chapter 2.**

 _ **Tuesday September 7, 1926**_

 _ **Cassandra Jones**_

There was a moment at mid-morning when Miss Baxter, Mr. Bates, and Andy all found themselves in the servants' hall. The first was taking advantage of the lull to lay out a pattern on the broad table. The second was patiently coaxing a stain from one of His Lordship's cuffs. And the third was snatching a few minutes' rest after an arduous morning of silver polishing and sipping a cup of tea kindly supplied by Daisy. Andy was also perusing the latest issue of _The Sketch_ , which Her Ladyship had given to her lady's maid only that morning and which Miss Baxter had left by the fire for the enjoyment of all.

"How's the new man, then?" Bates asked, looking up. "Have you been showing him the ropes?"

"Don't need to," Andy said emphatically. "He knows everything. And what he doesn't know, Mr. Barrow tells him once and he remembers. I'll be asking _him_ questions in another week." Andy looked a little beleaguered, as though he had been trying to keep up with Lewis and failing.

Bates grinned. "He's been a footman for some time," he said reassuringly. "If he _didn't_ know what he was doing, I'd be worried. What are you reading in there?"

The slightly pained look that had come over Andy at the mention of the other footman faded. "The society pages. I like to look at who's wearing what and where they're wearing it. I'm from London," he added, as if in explanation. The other two laughed.

"I turn right away to the letters to Cassandra Jones," Miss Baxter said. She had gained in confidence since her first appearance at Downton Abbey, but she admitted this with a slightly apologetic air. "I haven't had a chance yet with this issue."

Bates looked up again. "Read us the column, Andy."

Obligingly, Andy turned a few pages. His eyes found the appropriate section and, clearing his voice, he began to read aloud. Only months ago this would have been impossible for him. But he'd been a diligent student and now he rather enjoyed showing off his skill.

" _Dear Mrs. Jones_." Andy looked up. _"Mrs?_ Why Mrs.?"

"People think single women don't know much," Miss Baxter explained.

"Go on, Andy," Bates said.

" _Dear Mrs. Jones,_

 _I work in a respectable house in the north. My lady is of one of the most notable of families and I serve her faithfully. My concern is with the butler of the house. He is an odd little man, devoted to his work, exacting in his standards. We don't rub on very well together. Indeed, there is a great deal of friction between us. And yet...I admire him. His brittle manner is almost endearing, his concentration as he pores over his stamps compelling. I find myself drawn to him, almost against my will, and I fear this is becoming a distraction. What should I do?_ "

As he read, Andy had gotten into the spirit of the letter, his tone becoming more melodramatic. Bates was laughing, more from the footman's antics than the silly letter. Miss Baxter's reaction was more mixed. She was amused by Andy, but the missive itself unsettled her a little.

"A maid! With a crush on the _butler_!" Andy rolled his eyes. "What a scandal!"

"It's a woman of a higher station by the sound of it," Bates mused. "A lady's maid? A housekeeper, maybe. A year or two ago," he added mischievously, "it might have been Mrs. Hughes."

They all laughed at the ludicrousness of his suggestion.

"Mr. Carson is not a little man," Andy said. "Or odd."

"True enough," Bates conceded. "Still, there is more romance below stairs than we often acknowledge, as _I_ am evidence." He added this last, noting Miss Baxter's discomfort and discerning the cause. "This could have come from any house in Yorkshire."

Andy shook his head. "I can't imagine anyone writing this kind of letter to Mr. Spratt."

"Well, they don't _know_ it's Mr. Spratt," Bates said. "We do. What does he say?"

But before Andy could read the response, they were distracted by the opening and then banging shut of the door down the passage and in another moment Miss Denker made an entrance. She never just came in as other people did.

"Tea! At mid-morning!" she exclaimed, staring at Andy. "Shouldn't you be polishing staircases in anticipation of the visit of the American Ambassador!" She gave them all a haughty look, pleased to inform them in this way that she was up to date on goings-on at the Abbey.

Her sharp words brought a flush to Andy's cheeks and he hastily drained his cup, but Bates spoke up.

"He's put in his hours this morning. Why are you here?" Bates could be as courteous as any of the gentlemen upstairs, but he did not waste it on the undeserving. Miss Denker had never won his favour.

She clearly felt the same way about him, flinging across the table at him a small stiff envelope. "My lady asked me to put this into your hand directly," she snapped. "Heaven knows what she has to say to _you_."

"Thank you." Bates forbore to point out that tossing correspondence like a stone on a pond was hardly the same as handing it over directly. He did not rise to the bait of her comment. Instead he put the note in his pocket and re-focused on His Lordship's shirt.

"It's not as if you're a member of our household," Denker continued, her eyes boring into him.

Bates was certain the communication was an innocuous one. The Dowager would hardly have trusted Miss Denker with anything requiring discretion. He ignored her fishing remark.

"We've just been reading Cassandra Jones in _The Sketch_ ," Andy said, hoping to deflect Miss Denker from further comment about him. Past experience with the Dowager's maid had led him to be wary of her. "Do you read it?"

"Of course not!" she said indignantly. She convinced no one. "That's Mr. Spratt, you know."

None of them reacted to this. She'd already parted with this revelation some months ago.

"I don't know why Her Ladyship puts up with it. It's _demeaning_. _And_ nonsense. What could such an odd little man, a bachelor, a _butler_ , know about the vagaries of the heart? Nothing!" She was perhaps surprised to see all three of them suddenly staring at her. But they were a dull bunch. "I must be going. _I_ have work to do, even if the lot of _you_ don't." She disappeared down the passage decrying the injustice of having to serve as an errand boy.

Bates turned to Andy. "Read the letter again," he said.

Andy picked up the magazine and read. Almost immediately he fell into an inflection that mirrored the cadences of Miss Denker's strident tones. The men laughed aloud. Miss Baxter smiled.

"She _did_ call him an _odd little man_ ," Andy said with a grin.

"And I understand he collects stamp," Bates noted, his eyes crinkling mirthfully.

"Lots of people do that," Miss Baxter said. "Don't they?"

A bell rang even as she was speaking. Andy closed the magazine and leaped to his feet. "Back to my duties," he murmured, and fled the room, the magazine lying forgotten on the table behind him.

When Miss Baxter realized she'd left a necessary spool of thread in her room and got up to get it, Bates took advantage of the moment to examine the note Miss Denker had brought to him. In it the Dowager asked him to make a report at a time of his convenience sometime that week. He would have to find a window. His eyes lingered for a moment on the few words of her summons, observing the almost-erratic nature of her script. Was this age or infirmity catching up with her? Or was it only his imagination to see in her writing evidence of her declining health?

"What's that?"

He looked up sharply, irritated with himself for not having heard anyone approach. It was Anna.

He did not reply, only folding up the slip of paper, inserting it into its envelope, and returning it to his pocket. And did not respond to her question.

This perplexed Anna. She crossed the kitchen to his side. "What is it?" she asked again.

"Nothing that concerns us," he said lightly.

"You know I don't pry," Anna went on, "but I can't help thinking that you're involved in something. And if it's something you feel you can't tell me about, then it must be something serious. I thought we were all over that."

He understood her exasperation. Too often they had erred - both of them, though he more often - on the side of discretion and once or twice it had led them to disaster. Anna's concerns were legitimate in the abstract, if not in this particular case. He might have reassured her that _this_ secret had no implications for them, that it was someone else's secret that he was carrying for a change. But he had his own axe to grind.

"Why haven't you told me what's bothering you?" he murmured, his hooded gaze fixed on her. "Do you not think I've noticed how pale you are in the morning?" He'd been trying to contain his concern, to give her the benefit of the doubt, to extend to her the trust that he hoped she would show him. But it was no good. Now that she'd made an issue of it, he would suppress it no longer. There was an edge of aggravation to _his_ voice.

Anna stepped back and it was almost as though a door had shut between them. "I must get on," she said sharply. "I only came down to fetch a butter knife for nanny." And she turned on her heel and was gone.

Bates cursed beneath his breath. He had played it badly and had only himself to blame. And now he was more worried than ever.

 **Mary, George, and Barrow**

"I thought I might find you here."

Lady Mary stood at the door of the butler's pantry, smiling at her son who was kneeling on the visitor's chair which was drawn up flush with the butler's desk. George was so positioned that he might closely examine the globe that sat on the desk top between the boy and the butler. Barrow had been half out of his chair when Mary came in, one index finger on the sphere, pointing to something. At the sound of her voice, Barrow quickly stood erect. George only glanced in his mother's direction.

"My lady," Barrow said politely.

She moved into the room, nodding to him but with her attention fixed on her son. "Nanny was wondering where you'd got to, George. But I told her not to worry."

George was not concerned about Nanny's distraction. "I only ever come to visit Mr. Barrow," he said in a tone that suggested Nanny ought to know as much.

Mary was not about to reprimand him. The sight of a child of the house deep in conversation with the butler in the familiar environs of the pantry brought too many fond memories to the fore. Her nanny had learned early on that Mr. Carson was her best friend and that his office below stairs was both sanctuary _and_ schoolhouse for her, as well as her favourite place to play. She had many times taken tea here with the formidable butler of Downton Abbey and over many years formed a lasting emotional bond with him. She neither encouraged nor discouraged George in his pursuit of a relationship with Mr. Barrow, but that he gravitated to it naturally was something that warmed her heart. Barrow was not Carson. But neither was George his mother. Everyone had to make their own choices to suit themselves. _Especially_ when it came to friends.

George set the globe spinning as his mother approached his side.

"And what have you been up to?"she asked.

"Exploring!" George declared, his bright blue eyes sparkling with the adventure.

"Indeed! Carson and I travelled the world together, too. But we used an atlas." Her eyes went automatically to the shelf by the far door where the atlas, which Carson had bought just for her, had resided for so many years. It was no longer there.

"Mr. Carson took it with him," Barrow said helpfully.

Of course he had. It was one of the few tangible mementoes he had of the little girl he loved.

"Where did you go today?" Mary asked.

George's hand stilled the globe and then he feathered it around until he could stab a finger at a purple patch. "Germany."

He'd got it right. Mary was proud and not at all surprised. Learning had always come more easily to her in this room and under Carson's tutelage than upstairs in the nursery with her odious governess. Adulthood sometimes tempered childhood judgments, but Mary's assessment of Fraulein Kelder had never softened.

"Why Germany?" She and Carson had always gone to more exotic locations - South Africa, the Northwest Passage, the Strait of Magellan, China... Which was odd, now that she thought about it in retrospect, given Carson's aversion to all things foreign. It was perhaps ungenerous of her to intrude on this moment between George and Barrow, but it was also an opportunity for her to glimpse her son in a different social setting and she was curious. She wouldn't make a habit of it, knowing how valuable it was for the relationship to develop unfettered by outside influence.

Even as she asked the question, out of the corner of her eye she saw Barrow stirring uneasily.

"Mr. Barrow has a friend there," George said promptly. He picked an envelope up off the desk and waved it at his mother. "He's just gotten a letter from there. Look at the funny stamp, Mama." Barrow started a little, as though to recover the envelope, and then stilled again.

Mary took the envelope to see what George meant. "What do they put on their stamps, now that they haven't got a Kaiser?" she mused.

"Poets," Barrow replied. "I believe that is Schiller."

"Ugh." Mary had never warmed to poetry, English or otherwise. She fanned the envelope in distaste and her eye caught the return address on the back flap. She recognized the street as the same one on the letters Henry had received from his friend, Reinhard Morden.

"Mr. Barrow and I are sad today," George went on, though he hardly sounded so. "Our friends have gone away."

Mary was puzzled. "What friend are _you_ mourning?" she asked her son.

George rolled his eyes at her, a shock of his blond hair falling into his eyes as he did so. "Cousin Sybbie, Mama. She's my friend _and_ my cousin."

His unconscious gesture stopped the breath in Mary's throat. It was _so_ reminiscent of Matthew. "Of course," she said quickly, regaining her equilibrium. "But she hasn't gone very far, George." He might look and move like Matthew, but in that moment he sounded like his grandfather. "Barrow's friend," her eyes shifted briefly in the butler's direction, "is much farther away."

"But Sybbie hasn't invited me to stay since she left," George said sharply. "Mr. Barrow's friend invited _him_. But he can't go. So we're sad."

Barrow moved uncomfortably as Mary glanced his way. "It was an offhand suggestion, my lady," he said, clearly down-playing the invitation. "We were just ... talking ... when Er... Mr. Miller was here."

It was none of her business, so Mary did not pursue it. But she heard how he stumbled over the name and her long acquaintance with Barrow allowed her to appreciate his discomfort. She held out a hand to George. "I'm sorry to cut your visit short," she told them both, "but Lady Merton has dropped in unexpectedly and was hoping to see her grandson!"

"Grandmamma!" George said excitedly, pushing the chair back.

"Of course," Thomas said obligingly.

George took his mother's hand and skipped his way to the door. But with one hand on the doorjamb, he looked back. "Goodbye, Mr. Barrow. I shall return!"

This dramatic flourish evoked a laugh from each of the adults. But as she turned to leave, Mary glanced back once more to see the laughter fade from Barrow's countenance and his gaze fix on the letter she had put back on his desk.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 **Author's Note:** A shorter chapter so that a single chapter did not get ridiculously get out of hand. This is going to be a very long episode.


	18. Chapter 18

**DOWNTON 1926**

 **Episode 5. Chapter 3.**

 _ **Wednesday September 8, 1926**_

 **Bates, the Dowager, and Spratt**

It was a maxim that familiarity bred contempt. Although Bates's experience had not led him to embrace this as a general principle, it was certainly true in the particular case of Mr. Spratt. At the door of the Dower house the butler greeted him morose look and led him, wordlessly, to Her Ladyship's sitting room. Bates realized that he was, in the butler's estimation, now beneath notice. This did not bother the valet in the least as he recalled that he had never thought much of Mr. Spratt either.

The welcome extended to him by the Dowager Lady Grantham was much warmer. She did not look markedly different from their last meeting. She was still frail, but so determined in manner that her fragility was not immediately apparent. It was only that he now knew to look for it. Her eyes lit up as they fell on him.

"What news, Bates?"

She had precipitated this meeting. No doubt the matter was preying on her mind. He would have waited until he had something more concrete to tell her.

"I made a few preliminary inquiries based on the information which you provided and then visited the Registry Office in London."

"You saw the birth certificate?"

"I did. The mother identified herself under her mother's maiden name." That was the first wrinkle he had sorted.

"And the name of the father?"

"Unknown."

"Ah." The Dowager nodded gravely. "That was the arrangement. Did they...stay in London?"

"Not quite. You see there was also a death certificate." It was the second wrinkle.

"Of the child?"

Was she perturbed or relieved? He could not tell. That she was gripped by this fact, however, was undeniable. "No. The mother." Bates was not sure how close the Dowager wanted to come to the individuals involved and therefore chose to use the arm's length descriptors rather than specific names.

"What of the child, then?"

"That's where I am now," Bates said. "I'm writing more letters. It was fifty years ago. The adults involved in the arrangements at the time are likely dead."

"Yes," she agreed, with a note of resignation. "Not everyone is cursed with longevity." Her eyes, still bright with a vigour that belied her fading frame, fixed on his. "Is there any hope, Bates?"

"I believe so, my lady." If discretion had not been a requirement, he would have been able to make more direct inquiries. It was the creative element involved in subterfuge that slowed the process.

She sighed. "I am heartened by your confidence."

"We'll see this through, my lady." He spoke firmly. And then hesitated.

She noticed. "There is something else?"

"It's none of my business."

Her hand flicked dismissively. "I have made it your business. Speak."

Bates took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. "If I may be so bold, my lady. It is my experience that nothing good comes of keeping secrets. Indeed, keeping them may be harmful." There was ample evidence in his own life to support this statement. He felt the burden and pain of confidences even now. Her gaze rested on him for a long moment. He had the uneasy sensation that she understood something of his personal agonies over secrets.

"In frivolous matters, yes," she said finally. "And to avoid blatant dishonesty. But no one needs to know everything, Bates. We, His Lordship and I, wanted to do our duty as we saw fit."

Bates did not press her, though he did not agree with her. He accepted the Granthams' commitment to this child born the wrong side of the blanket and their remote concern, but there were other people to consider, specifically His Lordship and his sister, Lady Rosamund. And he thought her mistaken about this characterization of secrets. To his mind, the more important the secret, the greater the necessity of confiding it in those most affected. He was a little surprised that guilt or a lingering sense of responsibility had prompted the Granthams to agree upon this course of action in the first place. The most sensible avenue would have been to wash their hands of the matter and never speak of it again, to let sleeping dogs lie. But emotions, Bates conceded to himself, were seldom rational.

"Of course, my lady."

He withdrew.

Spratt intercepted him on the way to the door, as though determined to ensure that he left. The moment the butler joined him, Bates suddenly came over more lame than he was in order to slow his progress.

"Do you ever read _The Sketch_?" he asked casually.

"What?!" A look of outrage, wholly out of proportion to the question, came over Spratt's face.

"Lady Hexham's magazine," Bates went on patiently.

"I _know_ of what you speak," Spratt snapped.

Bates ignored the other's obvious discomfort over this. "Only...there was a letter in this month's issue about a female domestic and her ... _confusion_ ... over feelings about a butler. I..." He paused, stared keenly at Spratt, and then abruptly shook his head. "No," he said with a smile. "No, I've...I must have the wrong end of the stick." Re-gaining a fluidity of movement, he stepped out the door. When it slammed resoundingly behind him, Bates laughed aloud.

He proceeded along the walk to the gate and then headed up to the high street in the direction of Downton. At the corner, his eyes drifted along the market street and his mirth vanished at the sight of Anna disappearing through the gate of the cottage hospital. He had not told her of his own appointment this afternoon, so she might have assumed she could carry out her own expedition without fear of running into him accidentally.

She was going to see the doctor

He felt as though a stone had settled in his stomach.

 **Dr. Clarkson**

The inhabitants of Downton Abbey were a hardy lot. Barring childbirth and epidemics, they rarely had need of a doctor and for this Dr. Clarkson was grateful. But since the night of his indiscretion when he had encountered Barrow in the village street - an incident he could not forget though he barely remembered it - he had hoped to speak with Downton's butler. But no opportunity presented itself.

The impulse to see Barrow was about clearing the air, not explaining away his behaviour. He couldn't even do that to himself. Almost every night he had a shot of whisky after returning alone to his cottage with the single lamp burning in the hall and the supper, laid out by his housekeeper, which he then reheated. But that night he'd had a second whisky, which he did infrequently, though he quite deliberately made it less often than not. And then he'd poured another, and must have had another still to have achieved that degree of insobriety. His brain had fogged after the third but his hangover the next day spoke to the extent of his indulgence.

In that distracted state it had suddenly become imperative that he return to the hospital, convinced that he'd left someone in need. There must be _someone_ in Downton to whose ailments he had not yet fully ministered. Nursing a sore head the next day he knew that this compulsion was only a symptom of his inebriation. But in the moment it had driven him from his home and into the streets, though he could barely stand.

Though Downton village was small and he could, when in his right mind, navigate it blindfolded, he'd gotten lost. And it was in that moment of confusion that Barrow had appeared. The butler's face was vivid in his memory as almost nothing else that night was. And then...his memory went dark. The next morning he could almost have believed it all to have been a bad dream but for the empty whisky bottle and the pounding headache that gripped him. He drank several glasses of water, swallowed some paracetamol, and suffered through the day. It was the price of destructive self-indulgence.

He hadn't seen Barrow since.

On Wednesday afternoon, however, Downton came to him, though not in the form of the butler. It was Mrs. Bates who appeared, looking anxious. She had known a great deal of grief over the last several years but it had seemed that things were finally going well for her and her mercurial husband, who attracted trouble the way a magnet attracted iron. Dr. Clarkson was glad for them.

The prospect of a visit from anyone at the Abbey might have unsettled the doctor. He could not know what use Barrow might have made of the knowledge he now had of the physician's indiscretion. But in the moment, Dr. Clarkson's first concern was always the patient before him. He listened attentively as Mrs. Bates described the symptoms that had prompted her to seek his counsel. Though she hardly noticed it herself, his calm manner had a soothing effect. Her agitated recitation of symptoms slowed in pace, a response to the broad empathy she read in his face. She ceased to wring her hands.

"Only I've never felt like this before," she said fretfully, most alarmed over the bouts of faintness she had been experiencing which, in addition to an unfamiliar lower back pain and a persistent sense of fatigue, had brought her to the doctor. "And I'm afraid that..."

She didn't finish the sentence, only staring at him in an appealing way, her grey-green eyes more eloquent than words in communicating her fear.

He knew what she was afraid of. Every mysterious illness came down to the same thing in the mind of an otherwise habitually patient - cancer. And he understood, too, Mrs. Bates's inclination to apprehension. She was by nature an optimist, but she'd known too much ill fortune in recent years to believe naively that everything always came out right in the end.

It was one of the most gratifying aspects of his work for Clarkson to be able to give relief to those who came to him in need. He was glad that, in this instance, he could immediately allay her worries. He leaned across the desk, his hands folded casually before him, his piercing blue eyes crinkled in a kindly expression, his mouth turned up at the corners in an encouraging smile.

"Mrs. Bates, you're not ill."

 **John and Anna**

He ought to have gone straight back to the Abbey. There was work aplenty there waiting for him. But how could he pretend that he had not seen her? How could he let this charade continue? So instead he sat down on the bench outside the hospital gate and waited. She might be upset to find him there and to have to explain, but if there was something so seriously wrong with her as to bring her to the doctor, then she would be upset in any case.

The wait was excruciating, for though Bates would not have described himself as an imaginative man, he knew too much of the ills of the world to rest easily.

At length Anna appeared. Though he got to his feet slowly, he startled her. For a moment they stood frozen, staring at each other from different planes of shock. And then to his surprise, given the covert nature of her hospital visit, she flung herself at him, wrapping her arms about his neck.

"John!"

She had never called him by his first name in public.

Then he could feel warm tears on his face and all the anger he had felt at her shutting him out vanished. Whatever news it was - and it must be bad - his role now was to comfort and support, not to harbour resentments. He dropped his cane and tightened his arms around her.

But when she pulled away a little, he was startled again, for she was laughing through her tears.

"What is it?" he demanded, bewildered. "What's wrong?"

Anna stared at him through shining eyes, her face radiant, almost too overcome with elation to speak. "There's nothing wrong!" she whispered hoarsely, and then added, "I'm pregnant!" Her own astonishment was still fresh.

He staggered a little and then half-fell onto the bench from which he had just risen.

"John!" She quickly sat beside him, gripping his hand, comforting _him_.

He fixed his gaze on her and could hardly make out the fine features of her face because of the blur of tears in his own eyes. "I thought you were..." He spoke in a hushed voice.

Anna understood and reached out to stroke his cheek tenderly, soothing him. "Secrets!" she said scornfully, shaking her head in irritation with herself. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and then looked resolutely into his eyes. "I'm sorry, John. I was afraid it was something else and...we've been through so much. I didn't want to burden you..."

" _Burden_ me!"

"I was wrong," she said firmly. "It's a bad habit we've gotten into - no a ... a disease almost – this misguided impulse to protect each other from our innermost concerns." She smiled apologetically. "I realized how wrong it was when Dr. Clarkson told me that it was a baby, not a ...that was troubling me. I knew then that you should have been with me." She traced the line of his jaw where a faint trace of stubble was beginning to surface. "I was going right up to the Abbey to tell you straightaway."

He believed her. The news itself - another child! - overwhelmed him, so much so that he could not yet clearly focus on it. "How did you not know?" he asked, shaken to think that she had been so afraid for her health.

It was a reasonable question. She'd been pregnant a half dozen times before, although she'd only been able to carry a baby to term once before.

"I've been feeling different," she said simply. "And ... I thought the worst because I didn't think I could get pregnant when I was nursing Robbie. But Dr. Clarkson says that's just an old wives' tale."

"But you've been so pale and anxious and tired and..." He'd been watching her with alarm, not least because she had shut him out of her worries.

Her hand tightened over his. "They're common symptoms. Dr. Clarkson says its nothing to worry about."

His apprehensions began to fade. Her own relief, palpable in every relaxed gesture, in the upturn of her lips in the first smile - the first _real_ smile - he had seen there in weeks, calmed him, too. And his mind turned to the revelation at the heart of this upheaval.

"Another child."

No words could do justice to the maelstrom of feelings that swept him up in the reality of that fact. _Another child!_ How could he make clear to Anna how wonderful he thought that news! But then, looking into those magical grey-green eyes that had always discerned his heart so clearly, he knew that words were unnecessary. He leaned toward her and she met him halfway in the sweetest of kisses.

"Another child," he said, grinning this time.

"Yes!" Her excitement perfectly mirrored his.

They sat for a bit, enjoying their news together, their hearts and minds far from Downton.

But that couldn't last for long.

"We'd better get back." Anna made to get up, but John held her fast.

"I want to tell you something," he said earnestly. "Nothing so momentous - well, not for us, at least."

Her wide eyes fixed on him with polite and not a little curious expectation.

He'd been thinking it over intermittently through his lonely vigil at the hospital gate, whenever he could tear his mind from what might be occurring within. "I've not been forthcoming with you of late over my own activities. You see, the Dowager has asked me to do something for her. It is a matter of the utmost discretion. I can't tell you anything about it. The secret is not mine to tell. But I shouldn't have let the _fact_ of my service to her be a secret between us. And for that, I am sorry."

"The note the other morning...?"

"Yes. I had an appointment with her this afternoon. That's why I was in the village."

She readily forgave him. And then they got up to make their way back to the Abbey. They walked slowly, arm in arm, aglow with the exhilaration that the news of that everyday miracle evoked. Every other step they exchanged glances, in affirmation of their shared joy.

Though he hardly dared make the claim, it occurred to John that for them, for the John Bateses of Downton, life appeared finally to be unfolding as it should.

 **Charlie and Elsie**

Elsie supposed it was something she'd better get used to. Indeed, she was surprised it hadn't happened before. On Wednesday night she sat at her own dinner table with her dear husband across from her, as usual, and between them Daniel Ryder. They'd made supper again, the men. Only this time Charlie had invited Mr. Ryder to join them and he had accepted. Naturally they wanted to talk about their work and they made some effort, at least initially, to include her. They took turns telling her and each other their revelations from the papers and books they were reading. From their eager remarks, she could hear the narrative of the late Earl's life coming together and, too, the larger story of how the smaller world of Downton fit into a broader framework. But she gave their words only part of her attention, being more intrigued by the dynamic between them.

They were so comfortable together, Charlie and Daniel Ryder. There they were, chatting easily and with some animation about even the most mundane - to Elsie's way of thinking - details of someone else's life. On occasion they leaned inward and spoke more rapidly, as though they did not want to deprive the other of this or that tidbit of information one second longer than necessary.

Although it was still startling to see her Mr. Carson so unbuttoned with anyone but her - for even with Lady Mary, whom he loved as much as the air he breathed, he had to maintain a certain level of decorum - she had begun to understand what it was about. And she still wasn't sure how she felt about it.

The three of them, sat here together as they were, might have been a family. A stranger passing in the lane who glanced in the window at their cozy candlelit meal might easily have mistaken them for one. They could have had a son like Daniel Ryder, if they'd taken to each other immediately after her arrival at Downton thirty years ago and if they'd moved - been capable of moving - with alacrity. Certainly looking on the two heads of thick black hair, one of them showing grey, and their great dark eyes that so clearly revealed the enthusiasms of the minds within, it was possible to think _them_ related.

Neither she nor Charlie had had the experience of going 'home' on their half days to join their parents in a family meal. She'd not lived near enough to her family and his mother had died when he was a youth and his father not much longer after that. They weren't people to lament what had not been. They were both happy enough to have found each other and gotten on with it, enjoying what they had in the present. But she could see the appeal for Charlie of the company of this vibrant young man and understood the attraction of their working together on a project that interested them both.

 _Look at them_ , she told herself. _Like father and son_.

Did Charlie long for something like this? Was this the reason he had embraced this young man, this stranger, so readily? She sighed quietly. Well, she wouldn't ... couldn't... begrudge him that. Not if it gave him pleasure.

Daniel Ryder, though, was a different story and when her gaze settled on him the sentimentality inspired by her husband evaporated. Why was he here? He was a good-looking, very well educated, _middle class_ young man. What could he possibly want from Charlie? The fact was, she _couldn't_ imagine him wanting anything from Charlie, who must, therefore, be only a means to some other end. But _what_? She still had no idea. And she wasn't going to find out by remaining a spectator.

"What was it you studied at Cambridge, Mr. Ryder?" She passed up the more intriguing question as to why someone who had been up at Cambridge was in Yorkshire at all.

"History," Charlie said promptly. "I told you that." Then he came over a little abashed for having spoken out of turn. "Beg pardon," he mumbled in Daniel's direction.

The younger man was not at all bothered and gave Charlie a quick smile. "I read history and politics," he told Elsie.

"Classics?" she inquired politely.

"No, modern. Renaissance, industrial revolution, French Revolution..."

"Edmund Burke had a few choice words to say about _that_ ," Charlie interposed with a growl.

Elsie started to hum the _Marseillaise_ and Charlie glanced sharply at her. It was an allusion to a confidence he had made to her on their honeymoon and was possibly one that he wished he had not imparted. *****

Daniel missed the exchange between them and addressed Charlie's remark. "Mr. Burke supported the Americans wholeheartedly in their revolution, though. People forget that."

Charlie's attention returned to their guest. "Best not go there," he intoned. "I don't think we're in agreement."

"No," Daniel said amiably.

It did not escape Elsie that they had smoothly negotiated a topic that usually stirred Charlie to fevered indignation. There was a tolerance of Mr. Ryder's idiosyncracies that her husband rarely extended. She persisted in her own line of inquiry.

"I thought you were from Oxfordshire."

"I am. Wheatley."

"Then why did you go to Cambridge University?" She thought this suspicious. Why would one travel across four counties to go to college instead of going up the road? Nevertheless she affected an air of bewildered innocence.

"Universities are much like...great houses, Mrs. Carson. Each has its own atmosphere. I preferred the ambience of Cambridge."

How smoothly he said that. Every thought seemed to roll off his tongue with that same imperturbable aplomb. Perhaps he had been asked these questions before.

"But you were only there two years?" It was easier for a woman to feign ignorance. Men accepted it so readily.

Charlie, knowing her as he did, was more perceptive and coughed reprovingly. She ignored him.

"Yes. I did two years there. Then there was the war."

"Ah, yes."

"In which Mr. Ryder served with distinction," Charlie said forcefully, "for _four_ years."

Daniel flashed him a grateful look. "Well, I served. Many others made a greater contribution."

His modesty was appealing. Elsie could see how it charmed Charlie. And it touched her, too, this part of his life. But she could not shake off her wariness. But Charlie intervened then and steered the conversation in a different direction and very soon they were back to Downton.

"Has Mr. Barrow been at Downton long?" Daniel asked.

"Interminably."

Now it was Elsie's turn to give her husband a reproachful look. "He came to us a few years before the war and returned to service in 1919."

"He served, then," Daniel said, clearly interested in Barrow's war record.

"Yes. As a medic in the trenches for two years. Then he was wounded and came back to Downton to work in the cottage hospital here in the village. When Downton became a convalescent hospital, Dr. Clarkson appointed Mr. Barrow - Sergeant Barrow as he was then..."

" _Acting_ sergeant," Charlie corrected her.

"...to run the place on a day-to-day basis." Elsie felt she could be more forthcoming about Mr. Barrow's history. Whatever Mr. Ryder's motives, they could have nothing to do with the butler.

"Where he was a thorn in my side every day," Charlie declared. "And then I failed to get shot of him afterward."

"Oh, now. He's settled down quite a bit. You'll give Mr. Ryder a bad impression of our Mr. Barrow if you talk like that."

But Charlie only grunted. Clearly he was prepared to risk Daniel taking away an ill impression on that subject.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Carson. I've seen quite a bit of Mr. Barrow at the Abbey, mostly at meals, and he seems all right to me."

"Another point on which we'll have to disagree," Charlie grumbled, but with a good-natured smile.

Daniel moved on carefully. "It was once, I think, not the practice of domestic staff to marry. But at Downton this seems not to be the case, with you and the Bateses, and perhaps..." He let his sentence trail off.

He _was_ perceptive, Elsie thought, although, now that she thought of it, living with Mr. Molesley he could hardly help but pick up a few clues.

The possibility of another Downton downstairs wedding slipped by Charlie. "It was a late-run thing with us," he said instead. "The Crawleys have had a more progressive attitude on this subject than most."

Elsie almost choked on her tea. Had her husband just used the word _progressive_ in a positive sense?! She could only shake her head about that fact that he chose not to acknowledge his own legendary resistance to change as something that had obstructed _progress_ in their case.

"And yet Mr. Barrow is alone."

"Mr. Barrow is..." Charlie began.

"A traditionalist," Elsie finished, giving her husband a look. "He's worked hard to get where he is, Mr. Ryder, and he hasn't had time for anything else." There was in this some distance between the truth of the matter and her words. But while Elsie could be forthcoming on Barrow's professional life within the Abbey, she would not expose the complexities of his private world. Then she remembered something else, a fortunate distraction.

"I've been meaning to tell you," she said, addressing her husband. "We've got a new footman at Downton. He came on Monday."

"At last! Why've you been holding back on me?"

Elsie shook her head. "I just forgot." Every time she'd remembered he'd been in the middle of some story about his book or Daniel Ryder.

"Where did Mr. Barrow find him?"

"He came on the recommendation of another butler." She frowned a little, trying to recall. "Somewhere in Northumberland, I think."

Charlie's elation faded before a guarded look. "Strathmere Hall," he said.

"Why, yes! How did you know?" Her husband's extensive knowledge of the staff of northern estates never ceased to amaze her.

"It's not Lewis, is it?"

"Yes. Lewis Stairs." She could tell now that he did not think this good news at all. "Why?"

"Only that Mr. Erskine at Strathmere is his uncle. And he's been trying to unload him for years. Mr. Barrow," he added grimly, "has been played for a fool."

"That's a rotten trick to play on Mr. Barrow," Daniel said indignantly.

"It is," Elsie agreed warmly. "Lewis seemed fine to me. What's wrong with him?"

Charlie's sober look reached her from the length of the table. "Nothing at all," he said emphatically. "He's perfect."

Daniel Ryder made it an early night and Elsie was grateful for it and also that Charlie did not object. He was pleasant enough, Mr. Ryder, but not understanding him made it impossible for Elsie to like him. She didn't mind private people, but the unfathomable ones unsettled her.

"You were hard on him," Charlie remarked as they cleared the table.

"I beg your pardon?"

"On Daniel." He said the name easily.

She noticed that he'd slipped into this casual address, at least in conversation with her, and was no longer correcting himself.

"Asking all those questions. Staring at him."

"Did he notice?"

" _I_ noticed. Why do you dislike him?" Charlie seemed genuinely distressed by this.

"I don't dislike him."

"But you don't like him either."

"I don't know him," Elsie said truthfully. "Weren't you hard on Mr. Barrow?"

He drew himself up, a little affronted. "Since when have you become _his_ champion?"

She sidestepped that question. "You're very indulgent of Mr. Ryder. You didn't snap at him for any of his contrary views."

"Everyone is entitled to his opinion," Charlie said circumspectly.

Elsie stared at him, astonished. "Since when?"

Now he gazed at her, chagrined again. "You make me out to be quite a narrow-minded man, Elsie."

She yielded then to his disgruntlement, reaching out to take his hand and drawing him close to her. "I like you just the way you are," she said, and then kissed him.

"The fact that you like me _despite_ my apparent shortcomings is not much comfort," he murmured against her lips.

"And I thought that's what love was!"

 ***Author's Note:** The story of Charlie Carson and the _Marseillaise_ is something I'm saving for another story...


	19. Chapter 19

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **EPISODE 5.** _ **Friday September 10, 1926**_

 **Chapter 4.**

 ***NOTE: It's been so long. See the RECAP below if you've forgotten everything.**

 **The Granthams, the Ambassador, and the Unexpected Guest**

"You are in your element," Cora said to her husband. They were standing before the great front doors of the Abbey awaiting the arrival of their distinguished guest. Even as she spoke, they could see the black Rolls Royce through the trees on the main road.

"I am indeed," Robert declared proudly. "We are entertaining the Ambassador of the United States and we're doing it in Downton style. With _three_ footmen," he added, his eyes twinkling. They both glanced to the left where Barrow, impeccably attired in the crispest of liveries, stood at the head of a line of flawlessly suited footmen. Molesley was in the position of first footman, Andrew beside him, and the Lewis, the new man, next to him.

Mary and Henry were also in attendance. This pleased Robert, too. Mary took her position as co-owner of Downton seriously and though she was hardly interested in politics and would have little to do with entertaining Mr. Houghton directly, greeting a guest to the house fell within her responsibilities as she saw them.

Robert had dispatched Stark with the Rolls Royce to the station. It was a bit of a gesture to the man who had assumed the position of chauffeur when Tom had left it six years ago. This wasn't quite the life-in-service devotion to the family that several of the senior house servants - Carson, Mrs. Carson, Barrow, Anna, or Bates - could claim, but he had been a steady fellow. And age and arthritis were taking him away, not greener grass elsewhere, so Robert felt he deserved this honour as a last hurrah of sorts before retiring at the end of the month. They had yet to work out how they were going to divide the services of their remaining chauffeur.

Now the great car was rolling up the drive. As it came to a halt before them, the welcome party drew themselves up appropriately - the butler and footmen, ramrod straight in formal perfection, and the family with warm smiles. Andrew and Molesley rushed forward just as the car came to halt and reached for the doors.

The distinction of the man who emerged belonged in the first place to his office and then to the substance of his intellectual, entrepreneurial, and diplomatic talents. Physically Alanson Houghton was much less prepossessing, being of average height and unremarkable looks, his eyes framed by round glasses that gave him an owlish, almost professorial look. But his smile was genuine as his gaze found the Granthams and he shook Robert's hand firmly. And he was all graciousness as Robert introduced Cora. Mary and Henry waited politely to the side.

In the moment that Mr. Houghton exchanged words with Cora - he immediately made reference to their homeland across the Atlantic - Robert and Mary both glanced toward the car and to the second figure who had gotten out of it. They had known Houghton's wife was away in the States and they had expected that someone from the embassy would accompany the ambassador, but no one could have predicted this.

"What is it?" Henry murmured, noting the frozen look on Mary's face. "Do you know him?"

"We do." With only those two words Mary managed to convey a grim displeasure. And then she was smiling and greeting Mr. Houghton as Cora introduced her daughter and son-in-law, and Henry, too, was distracted.

Cora took the moment to glance at her husband. Mary's suddenly frosty demeanor was mirrored in Robert's countenance and following his gaze, Cora understood why. The poised and crisply attired figure who drew their muted opprobrium was Tim Grey.

"What's he doing here?" Robert had almost perfected the ventriloquist's trick of speaking without moving his lips. But even as he said the words, he was moving forward to acknowledge the unexpected guest.

"Lord Grantham." Tim Grey extended a hand.

Robert came over impassive and accepted the gesture. "Mr. Grey. We had not been informed."

"I'm serving as a liaison with the American Embassy and when I heard Mr. Houghton was visiting you, I seized the opportunity to return to Yorkshire as his personal advisor this weekend."

Why the ambassador required a Foreign Office operative on a quiet, relaxing weekend in the country escaped both Robert and Cora who exchanged looks that might have seemed neutral to an onlooker, but which conveyed between them their consternation at this turn of events.

"Isobel and Dickie are coming for dinner tonight," Cora murmured, as adept as Robert in communicating almost imperceptibly.

He nodded his awareness of this. Neither of them were pleased. Lord Merton's sons had disrupted more than one dinner at Downton Abbey and offended the Crawleys with their arrogant and insulting treatment of their father and, especially, his wife. Robert and Cora would not knowingly have exposed Isobel to further associations with her step-son.

The Crawleys fell into step with Mr. Houghton, assuming their roles as host and hostess and engaging in polite conversation as they passed through the great door, held for them by Barrow, who managed to be both an ornament to the occasion and also almost invisible, in the manner of every great butler.

Tim Grey, with a nod to Mary and an indifferent acknowledgment of Henry, followed them.

"What's up?" Henry asked quietly, as he and Mary brought up the rear.

"Fireworks," she said succinctly.

 **The Evening Upstairs**

It was cocktails in the sitting room first and this initial gathering of the dinner party required some careful negotiation.

A less sanguine person might have held his breath in introducing the Ambassador of the United States to the Dowager Lady Grantham, but Robert had tremendous faith in his mother and she did not disappoint. She smiled regally as the ambassador, in a gesture he had clearly picked up on the Continent, bent over her hand, murmuring, "My dear Lady Grantham." Violet was not, as a rule, impressed with either Americans or Continental manners, but she acknowledged the effort.

The Ambassador followed this with a soliloquy on the beauties of Yorkshire.

Here Violet was more critical. "Erring with excess, in the manner of all his countrymen," she murmured to Mary, even as she looked askance at the odd drink her granddaughter had handed her. "No outsider thinks Yorkshire is _that_ beautiful." *****

But Robert and Mary, who took almost as much pride in the county as they did in Downton itself, exchanged approving glances.

"It's a shame you're not here long enough for a tour of the moors," Henry put in. "That's the part of Yorkshire that's won my heart."

"Agreed!" Dickie Merton said vigorously.

His wife raised her eyebrows at his enthusiasm. Driving on the lonely moors with nothing to see but sheep had never appealed to Isobel.

"Perhaps I'll come back," Houghton said with a smile.

Dickie Merton's genial bearing dissipated somewhat as his son moved to his side. "Tim." The men shook hands. "It's a surprise to see you here."

Tim Grey nodded formally in Isobel's direction but when he spoke, his eyes remained on his father. "I'm sorry not to have given you notice of my trip to Yorkshire, Papa. It was quite a last minute assignment. This ... arrangement ... was somewhat _ad hoc_." His gaze strayed disapprovingly to Robert.

"It appears that one half of the Foreign Office isn't speaking to the other half," Isobel breathed into Dickie's ear, as Tim moved off to join the other young men. Tom, not present for the greeting at the door, had arrived in time for cocktails.

"Yes," Dickie drawled, "and it explains, too, that invitation from Larry for dinner on Sunday night. Not so out of the blue, after all."

"I can hardly wait," Isobel said drily. They exchanged grim glances. Neither was enthusiastic about an outing to Cavenham.

It was a tricky table setting with ten in attendance. Barrow had given it some thought. The most honoured guests must be arrayed by the side of hostess and host, with Ambassador Houghton to Lady Grantham's right and Lord Merton to her left. The Dowager had the favoured position on her son's right and Lady Merton would sit on his other side. The real question was how to seat the younger men.

During cocktails, Mary managed to get Barrow aside. "I don't want Mr. Grey at my end of the table, Barrow and I don't care what the rules or Carson might say. And you'd best put Mr. Branson at that end as well. He won't like it, but I think Mr. Talbot should have an ally."

"It is already arranged, my lady," Barrow intoned and won a rare look of approval from her. He smiled smugly. The politics of Downton Abbey had always been one of Barrow's specialties.

As they sat down to dinner, Isobel cast a resigned look at her husband. Tim sat directly across from her and though she would enjoy the men who sat either side of her - Tom was to her left - she was altogether too close for comfort to her disagreeable stepson. Dickie favoured her with a sympathetic smile.

Isobel embraced the advantages she had. "I've not seen you in a fortnight, Tom. How is Sybbie getting on at school?" Isobel had a knack for raising sensitive subjects with a disingenuousness that was almost always convincing. Only her son Matthew had been able to discern accurately between an innocent question and a deliberate attempt to stir the waters.

"Very well!" Tom declared, with a covert glance at Cora, who gave him an encouraging smile. "She's making friends with some of the village children and learning how to do a few things for herself." Out of the corner of his eye, Tom could see Robert holding himself perfectly still, as if waiting for this moment to pass. "She misses George, though."

"Tom and our granddaughter have recently moved into their own home," Cora told the ambassador. "And Sybil ..." She paused almost imperceptibly "...Sybbie, as we call her, is now attending the village school."

Ambassador Houghton appeared impressed. "That's awfully democratic of you," he said guilelessly, with an approving nod to Robert.

"Yes," Violet murmured, not quite beneath her breath. "We must do something about that."

"Granny." Mary's lips did not move and the warning was almost inaudible, but her grandmother heard it and ignored it.

"Is that an Irish accent?" Houghton inquired of Tom.

"It is. I'm from Galway originally, though I spent some years in Dublin."

"Not Anglo-Irish, then," the ambassador said carefully.

"No."

Tim Grey made a small dismissive sound.

But Houghton's attention had shifted to his host. "I had the impression, perhaps from immigrant opinion in America, that the English and Irish didn't mix well." The ambassador's words belied his thorough education in European affairs. He had much more than gossip on the home front to inform his understanding on what was arguably the greatest British problem of the last half century.

It was not a subject Robert cared to discuss ever, and certainly not at his dinner table, although it wasn't the first time it had been raised there. But his credentials as a host were beyond impeccable and that meant responding politely to any conversational direction in which his guest cared to travel. "On a political level relations have been troubled and remain ... delicate." He chose his words carefully. "But...," and his eyes flickered briefly Tom's way, "...the political has become personal at Downton. When our daughter Sybil, now deceased, married Tom, we had to make a decision about how we would go forward. We chose the higher ground." Robert would have been the first to admit the turmoil involved in that decision, but he was proud to have made it as he did.

Beside him, Violet smiled. She had, with her son, opposed the match. But she had yielded to the reality of it even before he did. She was proud of Robert.

Robert's formal demeanor gave way to a more pleasant expression. "I think I may say that all our lives have been enriched as a result."

Mary and Cora murmured their agreement.

"This is very heartening indeed!" Houghton declared with a passionate note in his voice. "I firmly believe that personal connections are critical in transcending sometimes bitter conflict with roots in history."

"You're speaking of Europe now," Robert surmised.

"I am. And not just Europe. America, too, And Japan, China, the lot."

"Oh, dear."

Isobel gave a little laugh at this muted note of alarm from Violet.

"Where there are true bonds, relations may bend under pressure and irritations, but they do not break so easily." This was clearly a theme on which Alanson Houghton had expanded before.

"The royal families gave us that in Europe," Robert said, with a sigh over the past tense.

"Not very effectively," Tom interjected. "After all, Kaiser Willy went to war enthusiastically against Cousins George and Nicky."

"Oh, that's quite different," Violet said energetically. "Ambassador Houghton is speaking of true _friendship_ , I believe. Whereas the royals were _family_." She laughed. " _Everyone_ has family members they despise." Violet herself had not been at all partial to her son's heir, his first cousin James Crawley, and though she had never wished James ill, his death on the _Titanic_ had rid Downton of an unpleasant presence. Nor did she confine her disdain to members of her husband's family. She loved her niece, Susan, the now-divorced Lady Flintshire, but she did not like the woman at all.

Violet's remark reverberated subtly around the table where everyone but Ambassador Houghton and, to a lesser extent, Henry, knew how well it applied to the Mertons where relations between the generations were brittle.

"And you've no desire to return to Ireland?" Houghton might have thought this was a neutral question.

"Desire, yes," Tom admitted. "But I've a past there."

"The Anglo-Irish Treaty offered no amnesties," Tim Grey put in, affecting helpfulness in clarifying the matter for the ambassador even as he deftly exposed Tom's revolutionary past.

The two young men exchanged cold smiles across the table. Tom had fallen out seriously with Lord Merton's older son, Larry, coming dangerously close to blows at this very table, but his interactions with Tim Grey were only marginally more civil.

Robert moved smoothly into the awkward pause. "Tom is a republican. He even moved to America for a while, but his sojourn there was short-lived. He missed our ways."

There was polite laughter at this, with Tom and Robert exchanging good-natured grins. Tim Grey rolled his eyes and sipped his wine.

The general conversation broke down into several smaller exchanges. Dickie Merton, who was Mary's godfather, asked earnestly after her children. Robert and Violet had their heads together and Robert's light laughter suggested he was enjoying his mother's infamous wit. Tom shared the details of the life he and Sybbie were building outside of the Abbey with Isobel. And Henry chatted politely with Tim Grey on the British export market for automobiles.

"I understand you spent several years at the helm of your family's company in Corning, New York, before turning to politics," Cora said to the ambassador. "The Corning Glass Works, I believe?"

"My grandfather founded it," Ambassador Houghton responded. "I had the privilege of serving as Vice President and then President for several years before winning a seat in Congress. It was a very satisfying period of my life, but I thought I might better serve my country as a public official in the wake of the war. The late President Harding very generously appointed me Ambassador to Germany."

"That was quite a _coup!"_ Among diplomatic postings, the capitals of Europe were always prime appointments. The same could not be said for Washington, D.C., where the humidity and heat had won it the informal designation as a hardship post in some European diplomatic corps.

"I had studied there," Houghton explained, "and I have long had an affinity for the people and the culture. I still do, especially with the emergence of Weimar. And then to have been appointed to the Court of St. James - well, I have been blessed. Britain is near to my heart as well."

"I feel the same way," Cora said with an indulgent smile. Her love affair with Britain was long-standing. "Although this is a nation of idiosyncracies," she added. The ambassador laughed and for several minutes they exchanged tales of British oddities.

"Your husband tells me we hail from the same region," Houghton said at length.

"I'm from Ohio," Cora explained. "Cincinnati."

"Ah. And your family...?"

Cora paused. "The Levinsons. My father, Isidore Levinson, was a banker in Cincinnati. He founded the Western Reserve Bank and Trust Company. He did a lot of business in western New York state. He was also on the board of any number of charitable organizations and public welfare institutions across the region. We could hardly go anywhere without tripping over the fruits of his labours on behalf of the community." Cora was not in the habit of advertising her family's affiliations and activities. They so rarely meant anything to her British guests. But this man was different. She had expectations here and there was something else besides - a scar long obscured by her residence in England.

Houghton stared at her impassively. "He may have been a little before my time. But in any case, we likely moved in different circles." He spoke without inflection.

Cora showed no reaction to these words. "Oh, I'm sure you did," she murmured.

"Molesley!" As he bent to offer her a plate of crepes, Violet's eyes fell on the former butler/valet/footman. "How kind of you to join the staff this evening." She glanced around her corner of the table. "I do appreciate loyalty."

"Thank you, my lady," Molesley murmured. He ought to have been addressed by his given name, as were all footmen, but the family had never reconciled themselves to this and persisted in according him a designation he did not deserve.

"How are things at the school? Is your work satisfactory?"

It was not the convention to make conversation with the servants, especially at a formal dinner, but one of the benefits of being the oldest and socially senior member of the party meant that some breaking of the rules was acceptable. And Violet had never been one to adhere strictly to rules in any case. Mary smiled indulgently. Dickie Merton found all the Crawley women charming and would not have looked askance even if he had found the behaviour peculiar.

"Very well, my lady." Molesley was more constrained by those very requirements and so kept his responses to a minimum and, with a nod, moved on to serve His Lordship.

"I like to see a man do well for himself," Violet said to her son. She was also very glad that the ambassador's attention was taken up with Cora, lest she be required to give an account of Molesley's ascent on the social ladder and have to accept more plaudits on the _democratic_ inclinations of the Crawley family.

Isobel found it impossible not to acknowledge Molesley as he offered the dish to her, and did so with a brief greeting, but she could not help but stare at him in consternation. He had declined her request to serve as butler at _her_ party and yet here he was a _footman_ at the Abbey. She did not understand. But she was distracted by Cora who spoke across the table to her.

"Isobel, I've been meaning to ask you. What do you know about the workhouse in Ripon?"

The conversations on either side of them dimmed a little, every ear captured by the dread term. Though no one in this group, save perhaps Tom, would ever have known it as a real threat, such was the general horror of the institution that it could not but draw attention. Barrow and Molesley, who might have come closer to it in their lifetimes, exchanged glances. Andy shifted uneasily. Lewis seemed unaffected. _Does nothing jar him_? Barrow wondered.

"I've no direct knowledge of it," Isobel said, "though I've long known of its existence. You may recall that I once sponsored a man who had been consigned there and helped him get back on his feet. Charles Grigg."

This information sparked a range of responses. The Crawleys, who knew Isobel well, smiled kindly at this. She had early on won for herself a reputation as a do-gooder in the Downton community and many benefited from her interventions, though Violet at least had occasionally shaken her head at the radical causes Cousin Isobel had embraced. A look so blatantly adoring came over Dickie so as almost to embarrass Mary who was the only one privy to it. Tim Grey merely stared at her in incomprehension, her action one so wholly foreign to him that he had not the words to express his revulsion. Unnoticed by anyone, Molesley's otherwise flawlessly professional demeanor faltered momentarily.

"I know that name," Robert said distractedly, and then remembered. He said nothing more. Grigg was an old acquaintance of Carson's. The two men had worked together briefly on the halls in days long past and Carson had taken great pains to bury that part of his life. Robert would not disinter it for the sake of dinner conversation.

Isobel nodded in Robert's direction and, like him, chose not to elaborate on Grigg's connections to Downton. "In the short time I gave him shelter at Grantham House ...," she ignored a hiss of disgust from Tim, "...he had much to say about the place. Apparently they're still every bit as inhospitable as they were at the height of the Poor Laws in the middle of the last century." Isobel made this announcement to the table at large. It was, she was certain, something of which every British citizen ought to be aware.

"For good reason," Tim said bluntly. "Make them at all tolerable and they will be overflowing with the undeserving poor who would rather live on the state than get off their backsides and do some honest work." And then, apparently unable to contain his exasperation any more, he added, "Why on earth would you have done such a thing?"

"It was a charitable act," Tom said, intervening boldly. He had always been Isobel's champion and she his. "But you need to have a heart in order to understand that."

"A bleeding heart, perhaps," Tim responded coldly, knowingly deploying that loaded term. He and Tom glared at each other.

"I didn't know you still had workhouses," Houghton said mildly, with a slightly disapproving glance toward his Foreign Office attendant.

"We do," Cora said, trying not to frown at Tim Grey herself. "Mr. Chamberlain is proposing to overhaul the system and to close the remaining ones. But I've been reading the Royal Commission report and..."

"Have you really!" Dickie's words reflected admiration for his hostess's initiative.

"I have," Cora said, and smiled appreciatively at him, "and I think there is much value in Mr. Chamberlain's recommendations. But I've been wanting to take a closer look before I make up my mind. I didn't even know there _was_ a workhouse in Ripon until ... recently." Cora decided not to mention her source for this information. "And I think there's nothing like direct evidence and so I want to visit it. Would you like to come?" She was now back to where she had started, speaking directly to Isobel.

"What?" It was not only Tim Grey who found this shocking. Robert, Mary, and Violet all stared at Cora as well.

"Of course, I would," Isobel responded spiritedly, ignoring the others. This was a venture completely in keeping with her own interests, although she had not indulged them in a while. She smiled at the prospect.

"Can I come, too?"

"Papa!" The announcement of the murder of the Tsar of Russia had elicited a less shocked reaction from most Britons than Dickie Merton's question did from his son. "You cannot be serious!"

"The only way to deal with serious matters, however uncomfortable they may be, is directly," Dickie responded calmly, addressing his son and leaning forward to see around Cora and the ambassador to do so. "And as Lady Grantham has said, before one can do anything, one must have the facts!"

At least perhaps a little pleased to have startled her own family, Cora smiled triumphantly and flashed grateful looks at Isobel and Dickie "I'll set it up."

Before Tim Grey could speak again, Robert smoothly took command of the conversation. "Ambassador Houghton, we've arranged a bit of a surprise for you. My father was a member of the household of Prince Alfred...yes," Robert smiled as he saw a glint of recognition light up Houghton's eyes, "...the great collector of glass and ceramics. When Lady Grantham and I married, Prince Alfred and Princess Maria Alexandrovna attended and gave us, as a wedding gift, a pair of goblets which I think you may find interesting."

Robert might have preferred a more auspicious moment for this announcement, but circumstances dictated otherwise. Cora had gotten what she'd wanted from Isobel, but the ambiance of the table could only deteriorate if Tim Grey were not contained. It was Robert's responsibility as host to derail such unpleasantness and thus he played his best card.

Alanson Houghton responded with gratifying enthusiasm and the Foreign Office man subsided into a glum silence, settling for glaring pointedly at his father's wife whom he held responsible for all the objectionable ideas and behaviours his father now exhibited.

Violet waded into the conversation then, having some personal acquaintance with Prince Alfred's renowned collection. "The Germans have it now," she concluded with a sigh.

"I visited it when I was studying there," Houghton said. "Magnificent."

Robert picked up the crystal goblet before him. "Though this set is not quite of the same calibre as the Prince Alfred pieces," he went on, "there's a story behind it as well."

"Papa." This time it was Mary giving her father a warning look.

He only smiled mischievously at her. "We try to use them on those odd occasions when we have eleven or, as tonight, ten at dinner. They came as a dozen, but," he inclined his head toward Mary, "thanks to my daughter, we've an incomplete set."

"I broke one once when I was playing in the butler's pantry," Mary said flatly, trying to derail his story, though she was neither irritated with nor unamused by her father.

"I'm surprised Carson ever let you into his pantry again," Isobel said with wide eyes. The seriousness with which the former butler had taken his responsibility for handling the family's possessions was well known.

Mary tossed her head and smiled more broadly. "Carson would forgive me anything."

With good humour restored across the table, with the exception of the glowering Tim Grey, small conversations took hold once more.

"You have a cenotaph in the village," Houghton said. "I saw it on route from the station."

"Yes. They've sprung up all over England," Robert responded. "On local initiative. Carson, our old butler, chaired the committee. I knew every young man whose name is engraved there." Robert spoke in a solemn tone. He knew from his own experiences in South Africa the price of war and knew both pride and pain every time he passed the monument.

"Would it be possible to visit it sometime this weekend?" the Ambassador asked. "I believe in paying respects to those men. Their stories ought never to be forgotten."

This pleased Robert immensely. "Of course. We'll go after the church service on Sunday."

Less interested in this conversational turn, Henry addressed himself to Tim Grey. "You're a Cambridge man, I understand."

Tom gave him a look. He worked so closely with Henry and they got on so well together that the differences in their social origins hardly ever surfaced. "You say that like it means something," he said.

Henry grinned at him. "It means a great deal, Tom. _I_ went to Oxford."

Tom knew that Henry was speaking tongue in cheek and this was somehow at dig at Tim Grey, but the Foreign Office man's presence had dulled his sense of humour. "What's the difference, really."

"If you have to ask..." Grey shook his head.

Henry persisted. They were only partway through the fourth course. They couldn't sit here glaring at each other _all_ evening. "Did you finish up before the war?"

"Class of 1914," Grey said airily.

"In good time to enlist." It was a fairly safe assumption.

But Tim Grey shook his head. "There was no war for me. Not at the front anyway." He said this with some satisfaction. "Declined on medical grounds, I'm afraid. And you?"

"Four years on the Western Front," Henry said soberly.

Grey shrugged indifferently. "You seem to have come out of it in one piece."

" _You_ look rather healthy for someone who was _rejected_ on medical grounds," Tom said abrasively. It was a mark of his distaste for Tim Grey that he was pursuing this. Tom did not ordinarily judge a man on whether he'd served or not. He admired Henry Talbot, and Matthew Crawley before him, for their personal courage in serving and for their love of country, though he found the particular cause of the Great War a weak one. He also admired men who had refused to join up on grounds of conscience. But he had no use for those who evaded service, especially those who exploited their connections in high places to do so.

"Not all conditions are visible," Grey said lightly.

Tom knew this well enough. His own plans to claim conscientious objector status had been thwarted by a heart murmur. He doubted Tim Grey had as legitimate a reason.

"Did you join up?"

Tom would have liked to wiped the smirk off the man's face with something more forceful than words. "I'm Irish," he said coolly. "I was prepared to go to prison rather than fight for England." Irked that he had let this obnoxious fop get under his skin, he made a deliberate effort to rein in his irritation, and so nodded to his brother-in-law. "Henry's the only hero here."

They were back to the subject of European problems at the centre of the table.

"The animosities among the European nations are very real," Ambassador Houghton admitted, "but they are neither inevitable nor insurmountable. England and France warred for centuries, but they are allies now."

"Perhaps the players have changed sides, Ambassador Houghton, but is not conflict inevitable when great interests are at stakes?" Mary demanded.

"Necessity makes for strange bedfellows," Violet mused, "but one wonders where we would be if Lord Grey had not been quite so forthcoming with France in 1906."**

"We'd be hailing the Kaiser as our king," Mary said, almost crossly.

"' _Splendid isolation_ ,'" Violet sighed. "Throwing that over put us on this troubled road - alliance with the French, enmity with Germany."

"It's not often I encounter such firm and _informed_ views all around the dinner table," Houghton said, with an admiring glance at the two women.

"Oh, we're not short on firm opinions here," Robert muttered, thinking that there was only so much a man could do to keep the conversation pleasant.

But Houghton was eager to engage with the women on this issue. He turned to Mary. "But Europe has a very rich tradition of diplomacy," he said, "of talking their way to meaningful settlements. One has only to look at the Congress of Vienna and the Congress of Berlin. With some patience - and understanding - the antagonisms of Versailles may yet evaporate and a lasting and equitable peace established."

"With the United States as honest broker," Robert put in. "The Dawes Plan has calmed the waters considerably." He glanced around the table. "The ambassador played a critical role in the formulation of that remedy."

This was a subject that had ignited heated debate at the Downton table before, but good manners prevailed in this moment and Mary, making an effort to contain her impatience with the "German question," smiled and turned to their guest. "My father is _our_ family diplomat, Ambassador Houghton. He keeps our dinner talk civil."

"He's the _village_ diplomat," Cora added forcefully, and with a note of pride. "Village life. You know how it is," she said, as an aside to Houghton. "We couldn't get through the summer fête without him."

The ambassador nodded agreeably. "Is there anything as intense as local politics?"

Henry had had enough of European politics at the table the last time they'd had foreign guests and so turned to Tom. "Are you determined not to join us tomorrow at Doncaster?"

"I'm surprised you're so keen," Tom said, knowing that Henry's heart lay with cars, not horses.

But Henry only glanced meaningfully to the other end of the table and then returned his gaze to Tom. "Oh, I'm keen. And horses have very little to do with it. But it'll be fun. What's keeping you away? And don't say business. I know that's not true."

With the ambassador engaged in conversation and his own reluctance to converse with Isobel, Tim Grey was looking for an opening to engage the other men. "I understand that you've taken to selling _used_ cars," he intervened, leaving them with no doubt as to what he thought about that.

Henry shrugged. "It _is_ the growing occupation of working aristocrats and younger sons. We can't all be men of the church or clerks in the Foreign Office."

"Diplomats," Tim Grey responded icily.

"I thought you had to be diplomatic to be a diplomat," Tom said with a laugh. Leaving Grey to seethe over that, Tom turned to Henry once more. "To answer your question, I've nothing against horse-racing. In fact, I quite like it, though I prefer cars. And it _would_ be exciting to see Coronach victorious. But when I moved out of the Abbey, I did so with the idea that I'd spend more time with Sybbie. I'll be at the shop tomorrow morning, but in the afternoon we're going to take a picnic to the White Horse at Kilburn, and George is going to come with us." *******

For a moment Henry looked a little chagrined. "That does sound like fun."

Tom just grinned.

"What about that...other thing?" Henry's voice dropped to a murmur and his levity dissipated.

Tom stared blankly at him for a moment and then grasped the point. "Oh. That. No, there's been nothing." He still hadn't mentioned the rock incident to Henry. Well, it _had_ been weeks ago. "I think it was just kids," Tom went on, affecting a casualness he did not feel. "Now they're back to school, I'm sure that'll be the end of it."

Henry was not convinced. "I've never known school to dim a boy's enthusiasm for pranks," he said. But he could see that Tom didn't want to discuss it, so he let the conversation lapse and his gaze drifted once more to the other end of the table and rested more agreeably on the beautiful lively woman there who was engaged so spiritedly in conversation with her grandmother.

Tom exhaled quietly in relief. Then he realized that Tim Grey was staring at him and wondered what the man had made of this exchange.

 **RECAP OF SEASON SO FAR**

Robert is entertaining the American Ambassador Alanson Houghton, at the request of Shrimpy. Cora is interested in the reform of English workhouses, a policy initiative of Neville Chamberlain, Minister of Health. The Dowager's health is declining and the end is in sight, but she's not going to die until she's met an obligation made to her late husband regarding an illegitimate child. Mary, on Carson's advice, is trying to _learn_ how to fall in love with her husband. Tom, now living in the old estate agent's cottage, has been subject to a series of small-scale harassment episodes and is uneasy. Edith and Bertie haven't figured much yet but they will in Episode 6. Carson is working on his history of the Crawley family at the Dowager's behest. Carson is worried about the Dowager's health, but is also quite taken with Daniel Ryder, the young man he has hired to help him with the history project. Elsie is adapting to reduced-hours employment, suspicious of Daniel Ryder's motives, and is a bit annoyed with her husband over his inexplicable infatuation with the newcomer. Thomas is getting on well as the butler, but still looking for love and thinks he may have found a possibility in the German valet to one of Henry's friends, but can Thomas get away to Berlin? Daisy is chafing as an assistant cook, especially having since discovered via a hidden letter from Mrs. Drewe, the whole sordid tale that surrounded Marigold. Mrs. Patmore has pretty much decided Mr. Mason is not for her. Bates and Anna are expecting a second child and taking more of an interest in their future away from Downton. Bates is also actively employed in seeking out the illegitimate child of the older Crawley generation as a special favour to the Dowager. Isobel and Dickie are struggling with the idea of entertaining the county when they don't entertain on that kind of a scale, and are very irritated by Larry Grey's criticism on this score. Molesley is feeling guilty about his non-participation in the First World War. Dr. Clarkson has fallen out a bit with Isobel who is urging him to retire, and went on a drinking binge that was witnessed by Thomas. There's an odd correspondence in _The Sketch_ that might or might not be connected to Spratt and Denker. I think that covers everything. As this chapter opens, the American Ambassador is about to arrive.

I was going to wait and only start posting again when I had all the episodes complete, but ... I've changed my mind. There are a few chapters ready. You might as well be reading them.

 ***A/N:** I would disagree with Violet here. In the opinion of this outsider, there are no superlatives great enough to encompass the beauty of Yorkshire.

 **** A/N2:** Coming to office in the midst of the First Moroccan Crisis, 1905-06, Lord Edward Grey as Foreign Secretary was inclined to support France. As part of this, "in January 1906 he authorized military conversations which resulted in plans being drawn up to send an expeditionary force to France in the event of war." The entente with France was already in place, Grey was only acting in its spirit. But his secret negotiations, first with France and then with Russia, helped establish the circumstances that made the First World War possible and he is recognized as having some responsibility for it. Britain's decisions to come to settle their differences with France and Russia and to "side" with them in disputes with Germany was a departure from the policy of "splendid isolation" in practice until the turn of the century and epitomized by the government of Lord Salisbury. ( .uk/government/history/past-foreign-secretaries/edward-grey)

 *****A/N3.** The White Horse of Kilburn is that interesting work of art - an etching of a horse cut into a stone hillside in the North York Moors and then treated with lime to whiten it. It's not far from Thirsk and thus a likely day's outing for a family from Downton. It hails from the Victorian era, the work was initiated in 1857, and it remains a compelling draw today.


	20. Chapter 20

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **Episode 5. Chapter 5.**

 **Mary and Henry**

They were a smaller party at Doncaster on Saturday. Robert, Cora, and Ambassador Houghton were driven down in Downton's Rolls, Stark at the wheel in his shining best. Mary and Henry went by themselves in Henry's sports car, top down to the brilliant September sunshine.

"How many cars do we have?" Mary asked idly, not caring a bit that her carefully coiffed hair would probably be unrecognizable by the time they arrived.

"Two," Henry replied. Then he glanced at her. "The sedan and this one. It's a frivolous toy, but I haven't wholly surrendered my love for cars."

"I'm glad," Mary said and meant it. As wary as she was of the sport of car racing, as frightened as she was by it, to tell the truth, she did not want Henry re-making himself according to her precepts. One of the things that had attracted her to both Henry and Matthew was their independence. Nor did she wish to be a wife who crushed her husband's spirit, however convenient that state might prove bytimes.

Henry showed no signs of being crushed. "I know George will be enjoying the White Horse, but we could have brought him along with us today," he said, his eyes straying her way. "He's becoming quite the horseman."

Mary smiled, one of those pure, sweet smiles that too rarely graced her countenance. "He is."

They'd already discussed Tim Grey the night before, but Henry now returned to the subject. "How did a man as generous and open-minded as Lord Merton come to have such a disagreeable son?"

" _Two_ disagreeable sons," Mary corrected him. "Tim is the civil one."

"He's not a very good advertisement for the diplomatic," Henry said. "Why did he want to accompany the ambassador when he knew it would mean seeing his father and Isobel last night?"

"And tomorrow night, too, I understand. Isobel said they've been invited to dine at Cavenham. That will be torture all around. As for why he came to Yorkshire, I think everyone in the Foreign Office is scrambling to gain American favour these days."

"But Tim Grey is so ill-suited to secure _anyone_ 's favour," Henry declared.

They both laughed at that.

"I think the place is riven with factions," Mary went on. "In approaching Papa, Shrimpy was acting for one group, but Tim Grey belongs to a rival faction. There are pro-Germans and anti-Germans, but everyone wants to get the Americans on _their_ side."

Henry shook his head. "I heard enough about that kind of nonsense when my father was a Member of Parliament. I wanted nothing to do with it."

"Darling," Mary said after a few moments of enjoying the scenery. "I'd like your advice on something. It's about Barrow."

 **The St Leger**

The St Leger was one of the premiere events on the English racing calendar. But the air of excitement in the refreshment tents before the race - all part of the atmosphere - was intensely electric.

"You couldn't have managed things better, Lord Grantham," Alanson Houghton declared with a boyish enthusiasm that clashed with his professorial demeanor. "To see Coronach in the flesh!"

"To see Coronach win!" Mary added, equally exhilarated.

"Tom and I have a small wager on the outcome," Henry murmured in her ear.

"You bet against Coronach, didn't you?" she surmised, shaking her head.

"I did. The odds are against him, Mary."

"The historical odds, perhaps. But not his own statistics. He'll win and we won't be able to feed the children for a month because of your gambling debts!" She said this with a smile and he laughed with her. Mary stared at her husband for a long moment after his attention had strayed to the crowd. _I'm trying, Carson_ , she said to herself. Teasing Henry was part of that. It was good to be laughing with him. But she had yet to breach the barrier between genuine fondness and those deeper feelings she sought within herself for him.

Well, for the moment she had other fish to fry and joined Henry in scanning the streams of people inside and outside the tent, looking for familiar faces.

"Mary!"

"Tony!"

Tony Gillingham and his wife, formerly Mabel Lane-Fox, had come up behind them. Mary accepted the formal greeting of a kiss on the cheek from Tony and then leaned into Mabel's embrace with more heartiness than she had ever before displayed to this one-time rival - a poor second - for Tony's affections. Then she introduced Henry.

"We met at your wedding," Tony reminded her, grasping Henry's hand enthusiastically.

"Oh, of course."

"Papa and Ambassador Houghton are over there," Mary said, pointing across the tent. The two men were in the midst of a small group and clearly conversing in earnest. "I hope they're talking horses, not politics," Mary added, studying the signs. "And I don't know where Mama has got to."

"Mr. Houghton is here for the race," Henry assured her. "Besides, that's Lord Wollavington they're talking to."

"Coronach's owner!" Mary stood on tiptoe to get a glimpse of him.

"Isn't he Canadian?" Tony asked.

"By birth," Henry said. "But he made his fortune here. In whisky."

"Here's to him, then!" Tony declared, although the glass he raised was filled with champagne.

Henry obligingly seconded the toast.

Mary was interested in the St Leger itself as much as anyone. More so, in fact. She had loved horse-racing since she was a child. In any other circumstances, she would have been at her father's side, drinking in the tales Lord Wollavington had to tell about his fine horses, one of which had won the St Leger in 1916. But today she had a different agenda and was glad to see Henry and Tony enjoying each other's company. She was not at all ill at ease at the sight of her husband chatting with her former lover. Today her concern was Tony's wife.

"How are you, Mabel?" she asked.

Mabel Gillingham was pretty after a fashion, but not a great beauty. She did not, Mary thought, sparkle as a woman should. But she had a self-confidence too often lacking in women - perhaps related to the fact that she had inherited a vast fortune in her own right and had taken an interest in managing it. Mary did not much like her, but she did respect her. And that, she told herself, was as good a foundation for friendship as any.

"Fighting fit," Mabel replied boldly, a turn of phrase that Mary's grandmother might have termed vulgar when applied to and by a woman. But it only made Mary smile.

"Things are going well for you and Tony, then."

"We're living at Gravenhurst," Mabel went on, an allusion to the country estate which had come to her, unencumbered, on her father's death. Financial considerations had obliged Tony's family to move into a smaller house on the Gillingham estate and to lease the main house and much of the land. Mabel could not be expected to live there, not with her own estate at hand. "Tony's taken a page out of your book, Mary. We have an agent, but Tony has been working closely with him. He's determined to take it all on someday."

This _was_ interesting news and Mary filed it away as something to discuss with Tony later on. But now Mabel was her focus.

"And what about you?" she asked, feigning greater interest than she felt. Carson's advice did not have to apply only to a spouse.

This conventional question so dramatically transformed the sometimes aloof occasionally almost haughty Mabel that Mary had to step back, startled.

"Oh, Mary," she gushed, grasping the other's hand in a display of unprecedented familiarity, "I have the best of news! I'm pregnant! You're the first to know. Well," she glanced fondly at her husband, "after Tony, of course."

Mary responded with a genuine smile. It _was_ good news, almost worthy of Mabel's forward behaviour. Before she could offer her congratulations, Mabel was rushing on.

"It's only ten weeks, confirmed but... Well. It's been a hard go for us. We've struggled so long."

Mabel had much more to say on the subject, but Mary only half listened. She'd not thought about this with regard to Tony and Mabel, but they _had_ been married for some time, eight months longer than Mary and Henry whose son Stephen was almost weaned. This wasn't really a story Mary wanted to hear, for a few reasons. The struggle to have a child, wearing at the best of times, oppressively so when there was an inheritance at stake, was debilitating. She remembered the emotional turbulence of her own bout with infertility, those long months when she and Matthew had experienced that wrenching cycle of hope and disappointment. Thinking about it reminded her of Matthew and the full panoply of emotional engagement she had shared with him and that always tore at her heart. But she could not deny Mabel her joy and tried to enter into to it with her. If only she did not have to hear every turn in that long and arduous road as it had unfolded for the Gillinghams.

Across the way, Lord Wollavington, the man of the hour in anticipation of another St Leger win, had moved on, leaving Robert and Ambassador Houghton in a state of exhilaration. This was racing talk at its finest. They had just renewed their champagne from a tray held aloft by an immaculately attired waiter, when Robert was hailed by someone with a booming voice.

"Lord Grantham!"

Robert turned to find Cora approaching with two familiar figures. "Look who I've found," Cora said.

"Ah, Lord Sinderby." Robert heartily shook the hand extended to him by the formidable man who was father-in-law to his dear niece, Rose. "Lady Sinderby," he added, in a somewhat gentler tone, turning to greet the woman. He smiled warmly at her. It was Robert's considered opinion that Lady Sinderby was a charming person whose vivacity was rivalled only by his own wife. Her husband showed none of her grace, but his rough manner was almost unnoticeable when his wife was on his arm.

Cora introduced the Sinderbys to Alanson Houghton. "The Ambassador is at Downton for a weekend in the country," she told them.

"The St Leger is the icing on the cake of an already outstanding holiday," Houghton said graciously. "I have had the most charming of hostesses." He smiled at Cora. She nodded in acknowledgment and then looked away.

Sinderby had fixed Robert with an impatient look. "And you're keeping him all to yourself? There are any number of matters one might want to take up with the Ambassador of the United States." He turned a cold eye on Houghton. "What is your man Hoover on about with this business about the rubber trade? Britain's monopoly _ensures_ the equitable distribution of the resource. And they are, after all, _our_ colonies."*

Those who knew Lord Sinderby endured this tirade as they would have a sudden summer storm, pausing in the moment to take what shelter there was to be had and then, when the clouds lifted, carrying on as though there had never been such an interruption. But Alanson Houghton only stared at Sinderby, his face expressionless.

"I beg your pardon," he said, when Sinderby paused to draw breath. The phrase was often employed by one who had made an error but was also, in a different tone, an expression of indignation at another's presumption. Houghton's inflection fell somewhere between the two.

Robert recognized this. The thing could go either way.

"Lord Sinderby is a banker," he said into the chilly void.

"I thought as much," Houghton murmured.

Cora gave him a sharp look. "The Sinderbys are the in-laws of our niece, Rose," she said. "Lord Flintshire's daughter," she added. "She and her husband now live in New York."

Houghton made a non-committal sound.

"Ambassador Houghton was hoping for a few quiet days _away_ from business," Robert put in, not with much hope. In his experience, Sinderby was difficult to derail.

"One can never get away from business," Sinderby said sharply, living up to Robert's apprehensions. "I hope America's generosity toward Germany will be extended to England as well."

"We are working together to ensure a lasting peace in Europe," Houghton said smoothly, though Robert heard a coolness in his voice.

Sinderby scoffed. "The key to European peace is to give the Germans a good thrashing and for the French to develop a backbone. To think that Napoleon was a Frenchman!"

"A Corsican, I believe," Robert murmured. He went on more firmly. "You must have more faith in our European neighbours and our American friends, Lord Sinderby. Indeed, you may find that now that you have an American in the family, your perceptions may shift a little."

"Eh? What?"

Robert leaned toward him a little. "Your grand-daughter. She's a _bona fide_ New Yorker and that, my dear chap, is a transformative factor." As Sinderby worked that out, Robert turned to his guest. "I think perhaps we should take our seats," he said lightly. "Cora?"

Cora, Mary, and Lady Sinderby had abdicated all interest in the men's conversation and were exchanging rather more interesting and less controversial news of their families.

As they moved off, Robert found himself under the scrutiny of his American guest.

"Well played, Grantham," Houghton said, with some admiration. "You knocked the wind out of him with that."

Cora gave Houghton a look, but Robert was pleased that he had defused the situation. "I've a Fenian grandchild myself," he said.

"You weren't that enthusiastic about that connection at the beginning," Cora reminded him.

"Well, I've come around," he said and then glanced at her. Cora was not at all herself today.

"You really do have a talent for calming the waters," Houghton went on.

Feeling chastened by Cora's unstated irritation, Robert said, "Sinderby is a good man. But he can be somewhat abrasive bytimes."

Houghton sighed. "Aren't they all," he said mildly.

Cora just stared at him.

 **Mary and Henry Again**

Coronach won.

"By almost six lengths! I'm sorry, darling," Mary said, after the initial elation of the victory had passed. "Now you'll have to pay up to Tom. Fancy him being a better judge of horseflesh than you."

Henry shrugged good-naturedly. "I relied on statistics, he just took the other side." He tucked Mary's arm through his as they made their way through the throng to their car. "I enjoyed seeing you quivering with excitement as he started to make up that bad start. That was worth every second of horse talk."

Mary gazed at him for a long moment, appreciating his languid demeanor that did not quite mask his intense feelings. _He_ loved _her._ And he deserved the best from her. Well, if she failed it wouldn't be for lack of trying.

"We're to meet Mama, Papa, and Mr. Houghton at the inn. Tony and Mabel will be joining us. Fortunately the Sinderbys won't."

"Don't you like them?"

"I like her very much. But Lord Sinderby will be himself. He's interesting and he's accepted that I can hold my own with him. Always," she added giving Henry a knowing look, "something to be appreciated in a man. I doubt he would have let go of the politics, though, and Papa didn't want that."

"Your mother hasn't had a very good day, I think," Henry observed. "I'd have invited her to accompany us, but the car's too small."

Mary nodded, frowning a little. "I noticed. She was herself when chatting with Lady Sinderby, but she's been quiet otherwise."

"And what about you?" Henry asked abruptly. "You were happy enough to see Lady Gillingham when they arrived, but the glow wore off rather quickly."

Mary was impressed with his perception. "They're going to have a child."

Henry nodded. "Tony told me."

"It's all she can talk about," Mary said, not bothering to disguise her glumness.

"It's good news," Henry said. "The _best_ news."

Mary's smile warmed again. Henry was a loving and attentive father to both of the boys. "Of course," she said swiftly and was distracted for a moment. "I wonder how Stephen is. This is the longest I've been away from him since he was born."

"He'll be fine," Henry assured her. "And we'll make it an early night."

She appreciated that and returned to her subject. "Having a child _is_ important and exciting, especially when you're in need of an heir. But it's not the only thing in the world. I hope _I_ didn't bore everyone silly talking about the imminent event when _I_ was pregnant."

"You're not everyone."

"Thank you. I think."

Henry laughed. "It's a compliment."

They had reached the car and he opened the door for her. "You were on a fishing expedition today, I think."

"Yes," Mary said, a little bleakly. "And I came up empty-handed."

 ***A/N.** Lord Sinderby is here referring to Commerce Secretary Herbert Hoover, who in the Republican administrations of the 1920s was the "man who did everything." Mr. Hoover, alas, became President just as the Great Depression descended and his inability to communicate to his nation his deep concerns or to emote effectively, as well as a recovery attempt that fell short of the mark, led to his election loss in 1932 to the dynamic, charming, and eminently more personally appealing Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Roosevelt tackled the Depression head-on, massively expanding those programs Hoover had introduced and introducing scads of his own, under the title "The New Deal." It changed the United States forever. But Hoover never recovered personally or in terms of reputation from his four years in the White House, the only bad four years he ever had in his very long life.

The other point here is about the rubber industry. By the 1920s the British Empire encompassed almost all the regions and territories in the world where rubber was produced. There are the colonies to which Lord Sinderby refers. Naturally in a world that is embarking on the "age of the automobile," control of rubber is important. In the mid-1920s, indeed, even as Ambassador Alanson Houghton is visiting Downton here, Britain and the United States are engaged in an acrimonious exchange over this rubber supply. British has almost a monopoly. Other nations have access, but through Britain, which annoys nations like the United States that want to exploit these territories/regions for themselves. That is the dispute to which Sinderby refers here. The United States, he implies, may complain about it, but the fact is that Britain gained control of these colonies _first_. He's complaining to the wrong man. Houghton is instrumental in ironing out these conflicts.


	21. Chapter 21

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **EPISODE 5. Chapter 6.** _Sunday September 12, 1926_

 **Thomas and the Cambridge Men**

On Sunday morning while the family were at church, Thomas was examining the dining room table setting and pondering the dimensions of Mr. Carson's loyalty to the family. Thomas understood, of course, the professional obligation of discretion that came with the position of butler and was himself committed to it. But, as the example of Lord Sinderby's butler Mr. Stowell had shown at Brancaster Castle, the butler was privy to the deepest confidences and it was apparent that the relationship between master and servant in that instance was not even a close one, not like Mr. Carson's intimacy with the Crawleys. _He must know so much_ , Thomas mused. _Pity none of it will appear in his book_. No doubt the thing would end up a paean of praise to the Granthams and be deadly dull to read.

Despite himself, Thomas was impressed by the layout in the dining room. Everything was perfectly arranged. Lewis's work, no doubt. Thomas had not had to adjust a single thing. Although this meant less aggravation, Lewis's exactness was just a little disturbing. Didn't the man have _anything_ else on his mind other than his duties?

Finished in the dining room, Thomas headed for the stairs but was arrested in his course by the sight of Daniel Ryder crossing the Great Hall. This was irregular. The man came to Downton only on week days. More to the point, with a distinguished guest in residence, Ryder ought to have known that his presence here was inappropriate. Thomas was about to call out to him, when another's voice pre-empted him.

"Good Lord! What are _you_ doing here?"

On the great staircase, stopped in his own tracks by the surprising sight of Daniel Ryder, stood Tim Grey. Evidently he had not felt the need to accompany the ambassador to church.

Ryder froze for a moment until his eyes found the source of the question and then his frame melted into a semblance Thomas would have described as _wary_. "Grey." His voice was amiable enough. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Tim Grey resumed his descent and then crossed the floor to where the other man stood. Barrow slid into a shadow and waited.

"I'm serving as liaison to the American Ambassador, Mr. Houghton, who is visiting the Granthams. I was...unaware...that you were also a guest this weekend." There was a question in Grey's remark.

Ryder could not ignore it. "I'm not a guest. I live here. In the village, at least. I'm writing a history of the Crawley family."

Tim Grey's eyebrows climbed in astonishment, but no more so than did Barrow's. Ryder had conveniently left off the fact that he was working _for_ the man who was writing the family history. Even the varnished version of his story left Tim Grey unimpressed.

"Bit of a come down," he said, somewhat contemptuously.

Ryder declined to be baited. "I enjoy historical research," he said pleasantly.

Grey's brow furrowed in thought. "Yes. You were reading history at Cambridge, weren't you. Before _the incident_ ," he added, in a tone thick with meaning. "Class of 1914 you would have been. With me. Pity." There was no sincerity in his sympathy.

"You finished then," Ryder said, shrugging off the other's disdain.

"Of course."

"But ... didn't serve, I believe."

 _Ah!_ thought Thomas. _The barbs are not all on one side_.

"No, not me, old chap," Grey said airily. "I heard that you did. Palestine, wasn't it? Well, that removed you from scrutiny."

"Four years. We had a time of it," Ryder responded, his voice just a little cooler

Tim Grey really wasn't interested in that line of conversation. "You were in the Colonial Office after. Driven from there by another ... _incident_ , as I recall. That business with Viscount Hambly. And you've come to Yorkshire to lick those wounds, I suppose."

"That was nothing to do with me!" Ryder snapped.

Grey was unmoved by the other's indignance. "And yet you are here. Well, you know how it is in public service," he said dismissively. "The wildest stories circulate. Best of luck with your...work, Ryder. Now, I must get on." He brushed by and headed for the main door.

Thomas remained still, watching Daniel Ryder clenching and unclenching his fists until at last he turned on his heel and strode to the green baize door, disappearing into the stairwell behind it, perhaps from whence he had come. Whatever had brought him to Downton this morning it was forgotten now.

Thomas moved after him slowly. It would do no good to follow hard on Ryder's heels. And he wanted to think.

Tim Grey's contempt for war service rankled him. He was contemptuous of all men who failed to serve. He hadn't an ounce of sympathy for the cowards or the shirkers. Nobody wanted to go to war, not many anyway. _He_ certainly hadn't. The patriotic types were all fools or nuts. The rest just grimly did their duty. Those who failed to do so were, in Thomas's eyes, reprehensible, especially those who slipped through the net because of who they were. For the first time in their acquaintance, Thomas found himself on Daniel Ryder's side. Four years in Palestine. It wasn't the Western Front, to be sure, but you didn't get to pick your theatre in wartime. At least he had fought.

As he made his way down the stairs, Thomas considered what else he had learned. Ryder had left Cambridge and the Colonial Office after _incidents_ , whatever that meant. And he had left before graduating, before the war broke out. And something about Viscount Hambly.

Well. He grinned to himself. The inscrutable Mr. Ryder was becoming less opaque. Thomas now had a name, a clue.

 **Robert and the Ambassador**

On Sunday, Robert and his guest went for a long early morning ride. Robert had grown up in the saddle; his father rode every day of his life at Downton. As the Earl of Grantham in his own right, Robert still participated with enthusiasm in riding sports, especially the hunt, and he had ensured that all his daughters had learned to ride and was especially proud that Mary had embraced the hunt. But overall he preferred to walk the estate where his father had always ridden it. The morning's ride was, therefore, a change of pace for him. He enjoyed the invigorating exercise. But most of all he loved seeing the estate. Robert loved Downton in every season, but he loved it best in the moment and so gloried in the fact that Houghton might see it in this early autumn splendour.

The church service followed and it seemed to Robert that all went particularly well there. The service was well attended, perhaps that the locals might catch a glimpse of this celebrity in their midst. The church itself reverberated with the joyful voices of the congregation in song and even Travis stirred himself, offering an uplifting sermon that didn't go on for too long. Robert was pleased that Mary and Henry had joined them and brought George along. Mary was the sluggish one there. Henry had greater commitment and sang with gusto, too.

Henry joined the other two men on their pilgrimage to the war memorial while the women went ahead to the house. They stood in silence for two minutes before the cenotaph. Around them, at a distance, villagers passing on their way from church paused as well.

Then Robert moved forward. He touched one of the names carved into the stone. "Edwin Poskitt," he said. "The blacksmith's second son. He died at Mons in 1914." His fingers feathered over the surface. "The Blacks - Walter, Oliver. Their bones are scattered somewhere in Flanders. The remains of neither identified, as if losing them wasn't enough of a trial for their parents. Robert Kearns died of wounds suffered on the Somme. He's buried in the churchyard here. Jack Carter fell at Cambrai in October, 1918. I don't know how, but it almost seems worse when the end was so near." He lingered by the monument.

"You knew them well," Houghton murmured.

Robert shrugged. "They were the young men of Downton."

Lunch followed, and then the men headed out on their own again, with Tom joining the other three, to Robert's delight, for the afternoon shooting party. It wasn't Houghton's first attempt at grouse, but he wasn't as skilled as the Downton group. That it was an effort for him made every successful shot an occasion for celebration. They all enjoyed themselves.

At the end of the afternoon Robert arranged with the beaters for most of the birds to be distributed in the village, as was usually the case, and then the party turned for home. Tom and Henry marched ahead, boasting playfully to each other of their prowess, while the older men brought up the rear.

"What a wonderful life this is, Lord Grantham!" Houghton declared, inhaling deeply and pausing to drink in the beauty of Downton's fields and hills, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Robert agreed, though he felt obliged to offer a _caveat_. "Of course we don't have the St Leger or shooting every weekend," he cautioned.

"But you have a _stake_ in things," Houghton went on. "Maintaining a balance, pushing forward in manageable increments, honouring the past while embracing the future. The English have much to contribute beyond their national borders."

Robert politely forbore to point out that the English already contributed so much to the world. But the ambassador's words were otherwise music to his ears. He forgot that he was frequently accused by his wife, his daughters, his American mother-in-law, and some of his radical peers in the House of Lords of being _too_ committed to the status quo and too fond of the past, and readily embraced this characterization of himself as a progressive moderate.

"I only wish more men in your Foreign Office shared your outlook."

Houghton's remark brought Robert back down to earth. "I'm sorry?"

"There are some very entrenched views among those who guide your foreign affairs. There are the Germanophiles and the Francophiles, the Russophobes and the ... well, there are anti-American opinions as well. It is particularly difficult to navigate with those who fear Germany," Houghton added with a careful glance at Robert.

"We've arguments enough about that at my own dinner table," Robert said.

"But you think differently."

They had stopped and were now standing face to face. Robert paused thoughtfully.

"I think the future peace of Europe is more likely to be secured through cooperation over confrontation. We must somehow bridge the gap between the Germans on the one side and us and the French on the other. As for the Bolsheviks...well, a common front in Europe is the best safeguard there."

"Your daughter called you a peacemaker."

Robert smiled. "Within the small world of Downton, perhaps."

Houghton grew more earnest. "I've been watching you this weekend," he said unexpectedly. "On a personal level you have navigated successfully the Anglo-Irish antagonism. At every moment that a black cloud threatened to descend on the conversation you turned it deftly into calmer climes with understanding and good humour."

Robert said nothing though he was pleasantly surprised by the ambassador's praise.

"May I ... call upon you from time to time to participate in social occasions where I think your talent for calming the waters may serve all sides?"

This request set Robert back. "I'm no diplomat," he protested.

"No. But you are not undiplomatic. And I'm not asking you to serve against the interests of your country, Lord Grantham, but in its favour. _For_ it. By doing on a larger stage what you do so well at the local level and at your own table - finding pathways to bring people together, intersections of interests. We are all of us, the world of nations, capable of expressing clearly our own positions. What we need are more means to _bridge_ our differences. I think you have a talent there."

The idea was a stunning one. Robert's world had always been that of Downton Abbey and the county. Even in the House of Lords he had served only as a representative of local interests, never seeking a broader stage. Modesty and a realistic understanding of both his abilities and his ambitions had made it so. And yet...was this not perhaps what Shrimpy, who knew him well, had anticipated in arranging this association?

"May I give this some consideration?" he asked.

The ambassador agreed readily.

Of course, Robert thought, he would have to talk it over with Cora.

Cora. Thoughts of his wife distracted him. There was something off there this weekend that he had not yet had time to explore. Tonight.

 **Dinner at Cavenham**

As the Crawleys were sitting down to a more intimate and less formal dinner at Downton, the Mertons were arriving at Cavenham.

Cavenham was the ancestral home of Lord Merton though the current titular lord, Dickie, now lived elsewhere. The romance that had sprung up between Lord Merton and Mrs. Reginald Crawley - Dickie and Isobel - had divided his family. The sons violently disapproved of their father marrying a member of the middle classes. It was possible that they would have objected to any woman who caught their father's favour, but they had chosen to make their stand on class difference. If there was a silver living, at least for Larry, it was that his father abdicated his rights to Cavenham, making the son lord of the manor in all but title.

Dickie and Isobel saw Larry and his wife Amelia but rarely. Tim, whose work in the diplomatic kept him in London or sent him abroad, had not been back to Yorkshire since before his father's marriage. It was thus a surprise - and not a very welcome one - for the happy couple to be invited to dinner at Cavenham. It was an awkward affair.

Isobel had a naturally effervescent personality and was, in addition, determined not to be defeated by the Grey boys, singly or in combination. But even she admitted that they put up a good fight. She tried to circumvent the obvious pitfalls by focusing on universally accepted subjects, opening with inquiries about Larry and Amelia's son Edgar. This was not quite as neutral as one might hope for Edgar had been named for his maternal grandfather and though he had four middle names, they did not include that of his father's father.

Larry and Amelia were quite prepared to extol the virtues of their remarkable son and to lay out, in exacting detail, their plans for every moment of his life from birth to marriage, and possibly beyond. Though tedious to the listeners, this litany did eat up time and keep the conversation civil.

"Did I tell you," Tim broke in, taking advantage of a moment when the happy parents paused simultaneously to chew, "that Branson is sending his daughter to the village school?"

Isobel and Dickie exchanged long-suffering glances at this as the predictable expressions of class disgust and horror descended on Larry and Amelia.

"Good Lord!" Larry exclaimed. "Sybil Crawley's child in the village school? Have the Crawleys no shame?!"

"That's abominable," Amelia added scornfully. "Though perhaps the chauffeur can't afford a governess. You would think that the Crawleys might have intervened."

"He's selling used cars now," Tim continued, pleased to have an abundance of shocking tales to tell about Tom Branson. "And Mary's husband..."

"Henry," Isobel supplied.

"Talbot...is in partnership with him."

"Yes," Larry mused. "I've seen their _shop_ in York." They all laughed heartily at this.

"Tom Branson is determined to raise his daughter to live in the world of the future, not the past," Isobel declared. She would have defended anyone against the Greys, but she spoke up automatically for Tom.

"It is hardly surprising to find middle-class support for that approach," Larry said to Tim, without looking at Isobel and ignoring his father's irritated growl.

"The Downton school is even less distinguished than its peers," Tim went on. "Did I understand correctly from dinner the other night that your former butler is teaching there now?" He looked to Isobel with these words, but as usual declined to address her by name.

"Molesley is a teacher at the school," she conceded. "But he's well qualified for the position."

Tim and Larry only smirked at each other.

"What was this former butler, now schoolteacher, doing at Downton on Friday night?" Amelia inquired. "Surely he was not at table with you!"

"He was serving," Tim told her.

This caught Larry's attention and now he turned to Isobel as well. "Well, if he'll do odd jobs at Downton, perhaps he could manage a dinner party or two for you. There is nothing...," he paused while the long-standing butler at Cavenham re-filled his wine glass, "...so necessary to a successful dinner as a good butler."

Larry's remark stung Isobel more than he could imagine. She had of late been giving much thought to how she and Dickie might fulfil their societal obligations and thus far been frustrated in her efforts to secure assistance. Molesley was the obvious candidate, but he had declined. Fair enough. The man had moved on. But seeing him in a footman's livery at Downton _had_ startled her. Why had he agreed to serve there? And Violet's remark at the table about loyalty had festered, too. Molesley had worked for her twice as long as he had served the Crawleys. Why was the bond of loyalty apparently so much stronger there? It was perhaps her sensitivity on this whole question which spurred her to a spontaneous rejoinder to Larry's barb.

"Oh, Molesley won't be serving at _our_ dinner party," she said, her eyes going round as they did when she was making a pronouncement.

"I beg your pardon. _Your_ dinner party?" Larry was surprised.

"Oh, haven't I mentioned it?" Isobel went on, blithely wading in ever more deeply. "On October 23rd." She pulled the date out of nowhere after a rapid calculation in her head. _A Friday night - yes, the 23_ _rd_ _!_

There was a long moment of silence in which everyone stared at her. This was a fortunate circumstance for otherwise the stunned look on Dickie's face might have been noticed by someone other than Isobel. She blinked at him and his slack jaw firmed up once more.

"I say," Larry drawled, recovering the power of speech. "Well. Won't that be something to which we can all look forward."

"Life at Downton is full of surprises," Tim put in, covering his own astonishment with a diversion. "When I came down this morning, who do you think I should see in the Great Hall but Daniel Ryder. You remember him," he prompted his brother. "We were all up at Cambridge together."

Larry turned slowly his way. Amelia looked befuddled. Dickie shot a quizzical look at Isobel. He did not know the name. She shrugged.

Tim shook his head at his brother. " _Ryder_. He left after our second year because of that _misunderstanding_..." He reminded his brother in detail. It was clear that Tim enjoyed recounting the circumstances that had befallen their acquaintance so many years ago.

Larry laughed. Amelia was amused. Isobel and Dickie remained unmoved. Neither were in the habit of enjoying the misfortunes of others.

"But what was he doing at Downton?" Larry demanded. "Is he a friend of Mary's? Or Henry's?"

"Not at all," Tim replied. "Apparently he's writing the family history."

"Oh!" Isobel understood now. "That's the fellow who's working with Carson," she said promptly.

The three younger people stared at her.

"Carson?" Larry arched an eyebrow and glanced at his brother. "Isn't he the old butler? We seem to have a lot of conversation about butlers tonight. What does he have to do with this?"

"He's..." Isobel hesitated, realizing that she had said more than she ought to have done. She did not know this Daniel Ryder, but if the Greys were united against him then she was, by default, on his side. She would do him no service by clarifying the situation, but she had already betrayed him. "The Dowager Lady Grantham has commissioned Carson to write the history of the Crawleys. Mr. Ryder is ... an associate ... in that enterprise," she finished lamely.

The brothers were grinning.

"He's working for the butler?" Tim gasped gleefully.

"My goodness," Larry said, with mock horror.

Dickie gave his wife a sympathetic look. He could see how she had fallen inadvertently into that mess and thus exposed a man they did not even know. Dickie leaned back and sighed. Associating with his sons was such a distasteful experience.

 **Isobel and Dickie**

Ever since their marriage, Dickie had ceased to apologize to Isobel for his sons. The fault line lay between the generations, not the bloodlines, and Dickie was firmly in Isobel's camp. A transgression by either Larry or Tim or, indeed, the equally obnoxious Amelia, was understood to be an insult to them both. They had escaped this evening relatively unscathed only because Larry and Tim had identified other prey. But it had been an exhausting proposition nevertheless that sent them immediately to bed on their return to Grantham House.

Isobel and Dickie enjoyed a very relaxed and satisfying intimate life, the foundation of which was a deeply passionate love that was completely mutual. Isobel was the love of Dickie's life, his first marriage having been a rather cold affair. A very great part of the endless delight he took in Isobel's company was the direct result of the fact that he simply adored her.

Isobel had come to the marriage having loved before. Her union with Reginald Crawley had been a loving one, deeply rooted in admiration and affection, augmented by the great gift of their son, Matthew. Isobel had mourned Reginald, but she would not let his memory define the rest of her life. She was in this as relentless as in other aspects of her life. She would never deny the past, but she would not be bound by it. Isobel was also blessed with an independence of spirit that widowhood only enhanced. It was this characteristic that had led her to reject potential suitors over the years. She was attractive. Men were drawn to her. She turned them away. Dickie Merton changed her mind.

There was so much about the external structure of his life - the peerage, the estate, the social responsibilities, and the deadening weight of history - that ought to have made "his kind" anathema to her. But Dickie had dismissed these burdens with an effortless shrug of his slender shoulders. He showed himself willing and able to flout the conventions of his world on his own account, not to impress her. And he knew how to woo a woman, for all that he'd not had much romance in his life. Isobel was charmed.

They fell into married life together easily, the day-to-day intimacy of sharing the same living space giving way naturally to the physical intimacy that came to them as bed partners. Dickie had never spent a night complete in the bed of his first wife. He and Isobel had never spent a night apart.

They had no attendants - no valet or lady's maid - to impose a formality on their bedtime rituals. Isobel had never had one. Dickie's man had taken the opportunity of his master's marriage to retire. Instead husband and wife helped each other with buttons and cufflinks and collars and clasps, caressing and kissing as they did so, which sometimes made them late for their engagements. At the other end of the day, when they were free to indulge themselves, this often led to very pleasant diversions.

"Were you serious about dinner, then?" Dickie asked, holding his arms very still that Isobel might unpin his cufflinks. " _Our_ dinner, I mean. On the 23rd of next month? Goodness, but you took me by surprise with that one."

Isobel gave a half-shrug, somewhat resigned. "I let Larry rattle me," she admitted. But then she straightened and looked Dickie in the eye. "But ... yes, I am serious."

"Have we solved the servant problem, then?" He wondered if he had somehow missed this important information, though he could not imagine having done so for he listened carefully to everything Isobel said. "The butler problem, I should say," he amended himself. As Isobel had reported her conversation with Violet, the butler had seemed the critical element.

"In a manner of speaking," Isobel replied. She clutched his hands in hers and stared into his very loving gaze. "We have Carson's article, after all. And who knows better than Carson? I've read it and it doesn't seem insurmountable. We are, after all, two _very_ intelligent and capable people."

"Are you suggesting...?" Dickie began cautiously.

"That we do it ourselves!" Isobel finished triumphantly. She spoke with enthusiasm. She'd gotten them in it now, so she must make the best of it. "Of course, we will have to hire servants to do the actual work on the day. But there's no reason we can't manage the organizational aspects. Mrs. Cullen will cook. We don't ask much of her on a daily basis, but she's capable of grander things. Ellen will pitch in. And despite what Cousin Violet said, I am going to ask Carson's advice. We'll keep it small and build our confidence. What do you think?"

Isobel asked that as though she truly expected a considered response.

But Dickie was well beyond that with her. His eyes grew owlish in eager anticipation, his own energy and enthusiasm building to meet hers.

"I'm in!" he declared. And then he tightened his own grip on her hands. "You are remarkable," he said, his voice half-awe, half-exultation. He shook his head as though finding it difficult to believe that the vision before his eyes was indeed a flesh and blood woman _and_ his wife.

Isobel laughed with delight. "You are deluded!" she countered, and that had them both giggling.

Dickie was almost always ready for bed before Isobel, but he waited for her, standing patiently beside the bed and only climbing in when she was ready to do so. She thought this a gesture of archaic chivalry, but loved that he did it. Sitting at her dressing table, brushing out her hair, she caught his eye in the mirror.

"That was an unkind story Tim told about the young man at Cambridge," she said.

Dickie cast his mind back. "Ryder. Yes, indeed."

"Imagine his turning up here to work on the Crawley history with Carson."

"Mmm." Dickie thought about it for a moment. "Do you think Carson knows his story?"

Isobel dropped her brush in her lap and gave her husband a wide-eyed look of incredulity. "Of course not!"

"Ought we to tell him?" Dickie ventured.

"I don't see why we should," she said firmly. "It's none of our business." She paused. "Or Carson's."

These distracting thoughts quickly fled Isobel's mind. She slipped out of her dressing gown and then beneath the sheet held aloft by her dear husband. In another moment she was wrapped blissfully in his warm embrace.

 **Cora and Robert**

Cora had not enjoyed the weekend. Getting into bed on Sunday night, as Baxter slipped unobtrusively from the room with the discarded evening dress on her arm, Cora felt only relief that Mr. Houghton and, with him, the odious Tim Grey would be leaving on the early morning train. She thought she might not join them for breakfast. It had been nothing like that weekend that Henry's friend from Germany had visited with the reprehensible Herr von Ribbentrop in tow, but for Cora it was only a matter of degree.

In contrast Robert, she knew, had had a wonderful three days. Despite a wariness of Americans in general - with notable exceptions - he had taken warmly to the ambassador. It didn't hurt that Robert's carefully-laid plans had all gone off like clockwork. Cora was glad for him. Much more than she, he missed the 'old days.' And while these quiet few days had not been quite the grand event Robert might conjure from his youth, it had been a pleasant affair for him all around. She saw satisfaction written on his countenance as he emerged from his dressing room. There was a buoyancy about the way he was carrying himself. Cora had to smile. Robert was an even-tempered man almost all of the time and thus a pleasure to be around. But when he was especially happy, he was an absolute delight for company.

She watched as he tossed his dressing gown over a nearby chair with a casual air and then pounced on the bed, scrambling over to kiss her. She laughed as the tip of his tongue tickled her lips. Then he sat back and gazed at her. He was radiant.

"I do love you," he said suddenly, with such solemnity that Cora raised her eyebrows at him.

"I wasn't in any doubt. You're in good humour."

He flung himself prostrate on the bed beside her, leaning on one elbow. "Why not!"

She studied him for a moment. "You have news," she said, sure of it now. "What is it?" His excitement was catching, but she moved cautiously. It could only have to do with their visitor.

He grinned in that boyish way he had when he had an announcement to make but tried to look nonchalant. Cora listened as he related the conversation with Alanson Houghton and the request that the ambassador had made of him. And as Robert spoke in animated tones, a little furrow of concern took shape on her brow. For a moment she didn't realize that Robert had stopped speaking.

Cora felt an obligation to say something into this void. "Well, I've always said you were a diplomat!" she declared, trying to be happy for him.

But he knew her too well. "Is anything the matter?"

Her face crinkled a little in dismay. "Isn't it peculiar - soliciting the assistance of someone from another country to assist you in relations _with_ that country?"

"No." Now Robert frowned a little. "I'm not engaged as a _spy_ , Cora. I would not do anything against the interests of my own country, nor would the ambassador ask me to do so."

 _Because they're all gentlemen, I suppose_ , Cora thought. She was annoyed with herself. This was not what bothered her about Robert's news. "He's only interested in his own country."

"It used to be your country," he reminded her. "And I don't think you're right. Mr. Houghton has asked me to facilitate conversation across sometimes acrimonious issues between Britain and America, and perhaps otherwise, at occasional social engagements. How is that underhanded? To my mind, any small part I might play in fostering peace is a good thing." He sat up as he spoke and adopted a rather formal posture, far removed from the playful demeanour of a few moments ago. "Is there something else?"

There was. Cora looked away. She had hoped that the weekend would end, the ambassador leave, and she could put it all behind her without having to raise the matter with Robert. But now that he was to be drawn into a perhaps ongoing relationship with the American official, she could not really avoid it. So she took a deep breath and met his gaze.

"Robert, he's anti-semitic."

He stared at her for a moment in disbelief and then laughed. "Oh, Cora. You've got the wrong end of the stick there."

"Really." It irked her that he denied her view without hearing why she thought so.

"Mr. Houghton is committed to amity across all lines, Cora. He would hardly espouse so divisive an ideology."

"On the contrary, it's quite a _unifying_ point," Cora said drily. "He's part of a business and social and governing clique in my part of the world that spurned men like my father. You didn't hear our conversation at dinner the other night, Robert. And didn't you see how he reacted to the Sinberbys?"

" _Everyone_ reacts that way to Lord Sinderby," Robert said quickly. "He's disagreeable. _I_ saw no evidence of this sentiment you speak of and I won't damn a man for the company he keeps in business circles or the diplomatic. Sometimes one simply doesn't have a choice." *****

"You do," she said doggedly. "A weekend's entertainment is one thing, Robert. But now you're going to embroil yourself..."

" _Embroil_? I may go to a few dinners." His manner was cooling rapidly. "I had hoped you would be pleased about this, supportive. I may be able to play a role here, Cora, however small, and it could be important. And if there _is_ an unpleasant current," he added as an afterthought, "then perhaps a tempering influence isn't a bad thing."

She almost laughed. "So you're going to secure world peace _and_ defeat anti-semitism? I didn't realize you were so ambitious."

There was a chill in the air now. Although Robert continued to meet her gaze, he had become rather remote. "No more so than you and your workhouse reform campaign," he said acidly. He pushed himself off the bed and gathered up his dressing gown. "I think I may sleep in my dressing room," he said evenly.

"I think that might be a good idea."

Robert withdrew without a backward glance.

 **END OF EPISODE FIVE**

 ***A/N.** Cora and Robert here present different impressions of Ambassador Alanson Houghton. There is no historical evidence to support the contention that Houghton was anti-Semitic, though the diplomatic corps in the United States, Britain, Canada, and possibly elsewhere in Europe or the Western world are known to have been riven with the sentiment in this period. Houghton, according to accounts of his career, was perhaps more diplomatic than discerning in dealing with the Nazis when he was in Germany in the 1930s, but was also troubled by the early excesses against Jews that began to grow with the accession to power of Hitler in 1933. As far as this story goes, Robert may be right and Cora may be reading too much into her conversations with Houghton. This isn't the end.


	22. Chapter 22

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **EPISODE 6. Chapter 1.**

 **Charlie and Elsie**

Several months into retirement he still awoke at an early hour. In these pre-dawn minutes over his many years of service his mind would already be tackling the work of the day ahead as his body stirred. He wondered if it was a habit too ingrained to change. Not that he wanted to change it. In his world view, only the sick and infirm and appallingly lazy kept to their beds in the morning. So long as he could rise, he would.

But in that time between waking and rising his mind was no longer cluttered with a thousand details of a taxing job. Oh, his plans for the day still flitted through his head, but they were not nearly as absorbing as they used to be. There was less with which to be concerned. More importantly there were other, more appealing matters to contemplate now.

In drawing the curtains at night, he had taken to leaving a gap so that a sliver of silver moonlight might cut the cloak of absolute darkness that would otherwise have enveloped them. This fragment of light was never enough to illuminate their faces but did make it possible to discern shadows which, in their exaggerated reflection of the body, could convey heightened emotion almost as effectively as facial expressions. When they ... he still did not have satisfactory words to describe what others called _making love_ \- the term seemed almost vulgar to him... when they came together in blessed union ... he found the dancing shadows cast by their moving together intoxicating. He had not spoken of this to Elsie. She had evidence enough of his rapture.

And in the morning that same slit in the curtains filtered dawn's light and created a different configuration of those same forms and he took pleasure in watching them play out before the alarm clock, which neither of them needed, went off to signal the beginning of their day.

In this half-light, his eyes were drawn to the line of her body. She slept on her side with her back to him that they might fall asleep fitted together, he facing her, his hand moving rhythmically along her thigh until he fell asleep. In the night they drifted apart a little, giving him this slightly removed perspective from which to observe her at daybreak.

Sometimes she woke up first and then would gently turn over to face him and wait for him to stir. He would drift to consciousness leaning into the hand that caressed his cheek. More often, he would reach out to her, his fingers feathering the outline of her form - neck, shoulders, side, hip, thigh. He had come to prefer the warmer weather for then she wore the light cotton nightdress he had given her on their wedding night and through the fine fabric the contours of her body were more distinct. The flannel of winter muffled her.

Once in a while his exploring fingers would find that the nightgown had gotten hitched up in the night and then he would slide his hand beneath its folds and revel in the almost electric impulse that leapt from her skin to his fingertips. And then he would close the gap between them so that he might trace the slope of her hip and spread his fingers out over the curve of her belly. He delighted in this. Oh, there were other pleasures of the flesh in near proximity and sometimes he strayed there and a whole other ritual unfolded. But he did enjoy this half-measure. It was a vulnerable spot and that he might touch her there so casually bespoke the deep trust that lay between them and that had made physical intimacy at their ages not only possible but also so immensely satisfying.

No matter where this pre-dawn journey took him, he never failed to thank God for the blessing of this new chapter in his life. As he had lived so much of his life in ignorance of this bliss, unable to envisage what he did not have, now he could no longer even imagine how he had ever lived without it.

It was Monday morning and in a few minutes the alarm clock would go off. As he tucked his hand around her he felt the telltale tightening of her abdominal muscles signaling that she, too, was awakening, and then he leaned against her more closely still. His lips traced the tantalizing arch of her neck until his warm breath fell on her ear.

"Good morning, love," he said.

 **Anna and John**

The only disadvantage to having breakfast at home before starting their day at Downton was the dishes. Anna's success as a housemaid had reflected a conscientiousness that carried over from her private life and part of that ethos was never leaving a mess behind. That being so, she always washed up before they left. It was an additional burden at the beginning of an always busy day.

"But I wouldn't have it any other way," she insisted when John urged her, not for the first time, to leave them for later. "It's the price of breakfast with my own family and I'll gladly pay it." She left John to dress Robbie while she attended to the kitchen.

She was just finishing up when the ruckus upstairs began. The two voices - the two male voices, _father and son_ (oh! how that phrase thrilled her!) - were loud with laughter.

"John!" They were having fun and she was glad of it, but getting Robbie so excited right before they departed for the Abbey was not a good idea. Nanny would not thank them for it. She'd commented recently that Robbie, not quite nine months old, was a "real little boy," and said so in a tone that suggested this was not a good thing. Putting away the last plate, Anna cast her apron aside and darted up the stairs. She followed the laughter to their bedroom and then stood for a moment watching, with no little exasperation, father and son at play.

John was lying flat on his back on the bed and held Robbie suspended above him. He was raising and lowering Robbie, all the while making funny sounds – "Whoooo! Ahhhhh! Heeheehee!" - which sent Robbie into paroxysms of giggling. The bed, only recently made _by her_ , was in disarray beneath them again. Robbie's clothes, pressed _by her_ the night before, were crumpled.

"John!"

He hadn't heard her approach. That was no great wonder, given the amount of noise the two of them had been making. To her further irritation, he did not look at all abashed when he glanced over at her, despite the fact that she was now standing in the doorway, hands on hips, glaring at him.

"Is it time to go?" he asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

Anna's only response was a low growl.

John lowered Robbie to the bed and then rolled himself to a sitting position. Robbie was still giggling and John couldn't help but smile indulgently. "We were having fun," he said, turning to Anna.

She was hard pressed not to smile with him. Was this not the scene - one of the many scenes - she had imagined and dreamed of in the long years of turbulence they had known? "What are you going to be like with two of them?" she demanded, half-amused, half-alarmed.

His eyes twinkled. " _Even happier_ ," he said, in that deliberate way he had. "Come here." He held one arm out to her.

"We've not got time for this," she said, but went to him anyway and allowed him to draw her into a half-embrace. "We'll all look like our clothes just came out of the laundry basket."

"I want to start looking at properties," John said, his manner sobering.

Anna raked a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture of her deep-seated feelings for her husband. Looking down into his face she saw there, beneath the levity of his game with Robbie, a kind of urgency. "We haven't got the papers from the house yet," she said, reminding him of something he knew better than she did. They were not incautious people. But in this John had become restless of late.

"We won't sign any mortgages," he told her, acknowledging her concern, "but I want to..."

"Do something."

"Yes. I want to have our life...our new life all together, underway before our second child is born."

The intensity with which he said this touched her heart. She bent her head to his and he quickly kissed her.

"Can we talk about it tonight? I'd rather not lose the jobs we have before we move on."

He gazed at her with a smouldering longing. "Always the practical one," he said, with a sigh that made them both laugh and prompted a companionable gurgle from their son.

Anna swung Robbie onto her hip and then John stood, too.

"I want it as much as you do," she said, now looking up at him.

The ambiguity of her words made them both smile.

 **Tom**

Sitting down at his own breakfast table on Monday morning, his daughter seated beside him chattering about the day ahead, Tom breathed a sigh of satisfaction. And relief. He was part of the Downton family and so had gone along happily to the dinner on Friday night. And he _had_ enjoyed the shoot on Sunday afternoon and dinner afterward had been pleasant enough. But he'd been happier to duck out of the races on Saturday and to spend the afternoon with the children. (After seeing the White Horse of Kilburn, Sybbie and George were determined to find some likely spot on the estate and to carve their own version, only George wanted it to be a dragon instead of a horse.) But there was nothing quite like a quiet meal at your own table and Tom was pleased with himself for moving out. Henry, he knew, was envious.

They got the papers in the morning and over breakfast Tom liked to lay them out and talk to Sybbie about the big stories of the day. Even though he was more taken up these days with his own business and family affairs, he wanted to keep up with the larger world and to cultivate in Sybbie the habit of doing so as well. He and Sybil had cared about things beyond their doorstep and it was important that their child did, too.

Every morning since school had started, he had walked her into the village. He would rather have sent her on her way in the company of other children, but their cottage was set apart and most of her journey would have been alone. Eventually she would make fast friends with some of the other little girls and they would be willing to go out of their way a bit. He might have driven her but all the village children walked to school and he did not want either to set her apart or continue the custom of indulgence. And he enjoyed her company for those extra minutes, as well.

And then there was the shadow that hung over him. Thus far the pranks had been relatively harmless and aimed exclusively at him. But he had known antagonism and violence in Ireland to encompass whole families and he would take no chances with Sybbie. In the afternoons, his housekeeper, Mrs. Hutton, collected her again.

He returned to the cottage at a more rapid pace. His days were always full ones. His car was housed in a separate building that had once sheltered the agent's horse and which Tom had re-made for this more modern purpose. Opening the driver's door his eyes fell immediately on the object lying on the seat.

It was a dead grouse, no doubt one of the casualties of yesterday's shoot. At least this was easier to clean up than a cow patty. Tom took a sheet from the newspaper he had stuffed into his pocket and wrapped the bird in it. He would toss it in the rubbish heap. It was a shame to waste a good bird, but its provenance gave him pause. It would not be safe to eat.

Disposing of it, he returned to the car and sat heavily in the driver's seat. So the prankster had _not_ gone away. Tom had hoped more than believed this was the case and now the evidence of a renewed campaign was before him.

But... _who was it_? The bird must have come from those taken the day before. No one else was allowed to shoot grouse on His Lordship's estate and the creature was too fresh to have come from farther afield. The birds had been distributed in the village. _Anyone_ could have got one. That didn't really narrow the field of suspects.

Aggravated, Tom slammed the car door and put the vehicle into gear. The best that could be said about it all was that it was, like the first few incidents, fairly benign. But this was hardly comforting. The one thing he knew about his stalker was that he could make no assumptions.

 **Robert and Violet**

Violet was delighted to have her son for tea on Monday afternoon and not a little gratified to find him at odds with his wife. She did not believe in lasting quarrels within a marriage, but in the moment was irritated with Cora herself and glad of an ally.

"It's frustrating," Robert said, pacing the floor while she sat regally in her favourite chair. " _And_ unfair," he went on. "She's flung herself into public affairs with this hospital and health care business and now the Poor Law and the workhouse..."

"The _workhouse_." Violet was still recovering from Cora's announcement on Friday night of her intention to visit the Union workhouse in Ripon. "Robert, what is she thinking? You must put your foot down." Violet was a paler version of herself in some ways but could still marshal impressive forces of indignation.

Robert shrugged glumly. "We are beyond that, Mama. Cora goes her own way." He said this as a matter of fact and gave no indication of disapproval because he did _not_ disapprove, not of Cora's independence anyway, though he had misgivings about this workhouse visit. "But now I have an opportunity to serve my country beyond merely being a good and loyal subject, and she would have me throw it over because of some aspect of the man that I did not myself see. And," he added earnestly, "it's not as though I share that attitude."

"As should be obvious, especially to Cora," Violet agreed. "I hope her objections won't put you off."

"No." Robert abandoned his pacing and took a seat across from his mother. "They won't. No more than my objections do her. I've decided to let it lie for another two days and then write Ambassador Houghton on Wednesday."

Violet smiled, pleased. They had not served at the highest ranks, the Crawleys, but they had always played their part and she was glad to see Robert so engaged.

"And how are things here?" Robert asked lightly, his tone masking a deeper concern.

Violet saw the worry in his eyes. "Oh, very well," she said reassuringly. "There seems to be some turmoil downstairs, but it's still simmering."

"Denker and Spratt at it again." Robert shook his head.

"Carson would never have had it at Downton," Violet said, agreeing with his unspoken dismay. "But this is a smaller house and I need my amusements. How did Carson respond to the Ambassador's proposal?" She knew that her son had spent the morning, after seeing the ambassador off on the early train, tramping the paths of Downton with Carson as he did every Monday, and was confident that he had briefed his old butler on this important development.

"Supportive," Robert said. "I'm afraid I was a bit grumpy though."

"I'm sure he can be a bit of a bear sometimes, too." Not that Violet had ever seen this side of Carson. But one couldn't run a ship the size as Downton as efficiently as Carson had done without a few irritable moments. And everyone had a bad day.

"He's almost universally cheerful these days," Robert said, and then added, "for Carson, that is."

Violet took this news as a personal victory. Carson had not taken well to retirement and she had played a critical role in dispelling his depression. And then there was his marriage, too. "Yes," she drawled, "newlywed bliss seems to have lingered longer with him."

This made Robert smile. Carson, the most unlikely candidate for late-in-life marriage, had indeed taken to his new state with zeal. Or perhaps passion was the best word for it.

"Perhaps. But more recently it's that he's quite taken with this assistant of his." Robert paused. "Have you met him, this young man?"

"Oh, yes," Violet said. "They're to come to me regularly now so that Carson may get my story. That will give me an opportunity to get a closer look."

For a few moments they enjoyed their tea in silence.

"Your father was a good man," Violet said suddenly.

Robert looked up at her, bewildered. As far as he was concerned, this was simply a fact.

"I think perhaps I've not said that often enough," Violet went on. "We understood each other. And we got on. Yes, we were well matched in so many ways."

Perhaps it was the nostalgic note in her voice, the sudden far-away-look in her eyes. Robert leaned more closely to her.

"Mama," he said gently. And in his eyes the questions and concerns of the past several weeks stared starkly at her.

"All is as it should be," she said, smiling kindly into the face of the sweet child she had adored since first she had felt him move within her.

They had never been demonstrative in their deepest affections.

 **Author's Note:** I thought we were all due for a bit of fluff, after chapters of plotting. This is the last of the chapters I have prepared. All else is an unorganized heap of scenes. So it will be a week or so before I post again.


	23. Chapter 23

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **EPISODE 6.**

 **Chapter 2.** _ **Tuesday to Thursday September 14-16, 1926**_

 **Thomas and Dr. Clarkson**

"Barrow."

Thomas hadn't seen the doctor coming and slowed to let the man catch up to him, although he anticipated a conversation he didn't want to have. It had been several days since their uncomfortable encounter and Thomas would have preferred more time to have slipped by, however inevitable a meeting must be in the end. And how much more difficult was this for Dr. Clarkson?

When the doctor came abreast of him, Thomas resumed his pace and the two men continued along the village street together. Thomas was uncomfortable meeting the man's eye, but Dr. Clarkson did not waver in his gaze.

"I want to talk to you about the other night," he said, wasting no time on pleasantries. "I'll not be disingenuous. I was inebriated, to an extreme degree. It was an inexcusable indulgence for a physician. Thank you for saving me from myself and for seeing me safely home."

Thomas acknowledged the words with a nod, and wondered whether the doctor remembered what had been said once they'd gotten to the man's house, or was choosing not to draw attention to that.

"I don't know if you've told anyone," the doctor went on, "and I won't ask you not to do so. I would appreciate your discretion, but I won't impose on your conscience."

There was a quiet dignity and humility in the way Clarkson spoke, and Thomas felt an unaccustomed pang of compassion. People usually sought a witness's silence in the matter of a social transgression and the doctor's position as a professional in the community made such circumspection all the more imperative. And yet he seemed more prepared to face the consequences of his actions than determined to hide them.

"I've forgotten it already," Thomas mumbled, unsettled by the man's approach. "We all ... have ... lapses of judgment." He didn't know what to say and was stumbling through the first words that came to mind. It impressed him that Clarkson made no excuses for himself.

"Perhaps. But that was a rather significant lapse."

"I'll tell no tales on you, doctor," Thomas said abruptly. "I know what it's like to..." To what? Have a secret? Be lonely? Feel the crushing pain of rejection? He did not finish his sentence. He wondered if Dr. Clarkson would take offense at his presumption, although it was unlikely the man would know what he'd said when under the influence.

Dr. Clarkson did _not_ take offense. "Well. Thank you." He paused and then added, "Good day, Barrow."

The doctor slipped away and, after a moment, Thomas glanced after him. Dr. Clarkson was a man of quiet authority, grace in bearing, and innate compassion. He did not hide the truth, for his own sake or anyone else's, but neither did he wield that knowledge for detrimental purposes. Thomas had first-hand experience of this.

No, he would not report Dr. Clarkson to His Lordship or Lady Merton or any other person in authority. Nor would he engage in gossip or innuendo about the man. But he was not quite sure that he should do nothing at all. This might have been a one-off occurrence - the doctor hadn't said either way. But the desolation of the man, laid bare before Downton's butler, did not bode well for future sobriety. Thomas knew well enough how such things could eat away at a man. And in the darkness of the other night, Thomas had glimpsed a soul in pain and had to acknowledge the limits of his own capacity to address it. This was beyond him. Only he didn't know where to turn for help.

 **Carson and Daniel Ryder**

"Did you know the story of Lady Roberta and the siege of Lucknow?" *****

The door of the Dower House had hardly closed behind them when Daniel Ryder demanded this of Carson, who was not at all surprised to be so accosted.

They had spent the afternoon listening to the Dowager Lady Grantham recount exploits of her husband's family in the tumultuous decades of mid-century. She was looking more fragile than ever, a fact which tugged at the edges of Carson's consciousness even as he plied her with questions. But she was in fine form. His Lordship's great uncle Patrick Crawley had witnessed the charge of the Light Brigade in the Crimea. His father Joseph had, as a very young man, fallen overboard in the Straits of Magellan while circumnavigating the globe with Prince Alfred. Lady Roberta had barely escaped with her life during the Indian mutiny. ****** All were thrilling tales, but this last had caught Daniel's imagination the most.

"I did," Carson said amiably, amused by the younger man's excitement and pleased that after days of rather more conventional memories of life on the estate in the 1870s, Her Ladyship had today related these very colourful tales. "I was not yet born when it happened, but the story was common currency for years. I grew up with it." Until His Lordship went to the South African War, Lady Roberta's credentials in imperial adventure were unmatched. There were those, Carson knew, who would still rank Lady Roberta's experience first, but Carson was loyal to His Lordship, firm in the belief that two and a half years of war with the Boers superceded a short-lived insurrection, no matter how terrifying those six months at Lucknow might have been. They would get to Robert Crawley's story eventually. Until then, Carson was prepared to let Lady Roberta have her moment.

"It's one of the most exciting stories I've ever heard!" Daniel went on, his eyes shining like a boy's.

" _You've_ been to Palestine. During the Great War," Carson reminded him.

Daniel only shrugged. "Her Ladyship was fond of her sister-in-law, I gather," he said instead.

"Fond enough to remember her in the naming of her own son. She had her adventures, Lady Roberta, but she died at Downton. She's buried in the graveyard here." Carson waved in that direction and then glanced sidelong at his companion. "Let's have a look."

Daniel nodded eagerly. "Lady Grantham tells a story so well," he said, as they followed the road down to the church. "I was terrified for Lady Roberta's fate until she got us to the relief of the Residency."

"I noticed," Carson said, rather drily. Daniel had dropped his pen and, though Her Ladyship had feigned no awareness of his presence, she artfully let a crucial sentence hang in the air until he'd scrambled on the floor and found it again. Carson had been mildly vexed before he recalled that Daniel had not been trained to service and so it was unrealistic to expect him to have perfected the capacity for invisibility that every good servant possessed.

"Oh, Her Ladyship has a gift for a story," Carson went on. "We must be very careful to capture her voice in the recounting of the history of the Crawleys in her time."

They passed through the churchyard gate and Carson led the way to the area reserved for the family. The six men who had held the title of Earl of Grantham were memorialized in grey stone monuments of various sizes.

"An unbroken line of succession," Carson pointed out, "from father to son. Unbroken through His Lordship, at any rate. It will skip a generation to Master George. Lady Roberta lies over here."

They stood in silence before the red granite marker that also included Lady Roberta's husband and two infant children.

"She chose the stone," Carson said, at length. He knew endless details about the Grantham family. "It came from Ireland where she and her husband, Lord Sumner, spent some apparently happy years." There was a sceptical note in his voice. Carson had never been to Ireland, never wanted to go there, thought little of those who resided there, and was not much impressed with those who spoke favourably of the place. He had been years learning to think otherwise of Mr. Branson and was not entirely there yet.

Carson could not pass through Downton churchyard without pausing by the graves of his parents. He said nothing, but only walked that way with Daniel following, and then stopped before them.

"Your parents."

"Yes." And infant brother. *******

Another moment of respectful silence descended.

"Did you get on?" Daniel asked this as they began to move toward the gate.

Carson nodded. "We did," he said lightly. "My mother had quite a personality. My father was a Yorkshireman." The latter description was a bit of verbal shorthand. Everyone from around Downton would know exactly what he meant by it. Daniel wasn't from Yorkshire but Carson didn't try to explain. It was something one knew or not. "There aren't many who would agree," he added, "but _I_ think I took after _her_."

"He worked on the estate, your father."

"Yes. In the stables. He was head groom for a long time, as his father was before him. His Lordship would trust no one else with his best hunters." Carson spoke proudly of his father. They had traveled different roads, father and son, but Frank Carson was the best man with horses in Yorkshire and his son admired him for it. "That was never for me," he added, answering the unspoken question in Daniel's eyes.

"Did he mind, your father?"

"Not at all." Carson was emphatic on that point. "He never said so in so many words, of course, but he was pleased and proud of the way I took to service at the Abbey." He sighed. It was one of his few regrets that his father died before Carson had been appointed butler of Downton Abbey at thirty-two, a major _coup._ _ ********_ "You've not said much about your family," he observed, glancing at Daniel and mindful as he asked of Elsie's pointed comments about how little he knew of his assistant.

The other's face gave nothing away. "Oh, I was away at school for most of my childhood," Daniel responded breezily. "Then up at Cambridge. Then the war. I never really got to know them."

 _Away at school_. Carson had gone to the grammar school in Ripon for a couple of years, which necessitated boarding in town for months at a time. But he had been exceptional among the village boys in doing so. Daniel's formal education denoted a different class altogether. But then, working class lads didn't go to Cambridge.

"And now?" It was a personal question, but Daniel had opened the door. And Carson did want to know him better.

"I don't see them." It was an unemotional statement. "We ... do _not_ get on, not like you and your parents."

"I can hardly countenance it," Carson said, bewildered. "Who could have objections to you?"

This elicited a quick smile from Daniel. "Thank you, Mr. Carson. It may be, though, that it is I who object to them."

Carson was surprised at this possibility. "Do you?"

"No. No, I ... I'm fond of them. But... Your father, Mr. Carson, did not object to your taking your own road in life. My father has. He wanted ... still wants me to be just like him. It's been some years since I, at least, recognized that we are unlikely to be reconciled over this."

"Well." Carson had expected none of this from the congenial young man of whom he was increasingly fond. And he had no words to respond either, unsure whether condolences or rationalizations were in order. "Do you fancy a pint?" he asked, the sign of the Grantham Arms swaying in the distance having caught his eye as a likely distraction from this uncomfortable exchange.

"It's not open yet."

"Of course." Although he did not frequent the local pub, he well knew the hours of operation that governed - some might say tyrannized - the public houses of England.

Daniel Ryder, too, may have appreciated the strained atmosphere wrought by his admission and moved more effectively to shift the subject. "Did you know the Kearnses were giving up the Grantham Arms?"

"I... What?!" Carson stared at him. "How would you know that?" As a lifelong resident of Downton and over many years as butler at the Abbey, Carson had kept his ear to the ground and had always maintained an effective mastery of the local gossip. But he had not heard this. And he was astounded that a relative stranger would have this intimate piece of information before he did.

"Mr. Molesley," Daniel said, smiling at Mr. Carson's dismay.

"Oh. Right." Carson felt much better. Molesley. Yes, Molesley was at least as attuned as Carson had ever been to the village goings-on and had the added advantage of his father to collect information. "Well. That _will_ be a change." He frowned. It didn't matter whether change affected him directly or not - he disliked it on its own account. He wondered if His Lordship knew about it.

Then he remembered where they had been before this digression and decided to go in a different direction with regard to Daniel Ryder's confession. "Come to the cottage for dinner," he said abruptly. "Mrs. Carson will be glad to see you."

 **Mrs. Patmore and Daisy**

Mrs. Patmore was exasperated. Mr. Barrow distributed the mail at breakfast as the butler had always done at Downton and Daisy had gotten a letter. She'd put it directly into her apron pocket and then carried on with her day. If she looked at it that morning, then she'd done so surreptitiously for the cook kept a close eye on her.

 _Good Lord_! Mrs. Patmore exclaimed to herself. Who _was_ this alien creature who now inhabited Daisy's skin? For days the assistant cook had gone about her duties uncomplainingly, or, at least, with so few critical comments that it had the effect of seeming uncomplaining, leaving Mrs. Patmore with a dilemma. She liked an efficient Daisy because she liked her kitchen to run smoothly. But curiosity and impatience were slowly but surely killing her. There was nothing for it but simply to ask.

"Who've you heard from and what did they say?" she demanded bluntly over the lunch dishes.

Up to her elbows in soapy water, Daisy looked bewildered for a moment and then frowned. "I don't have to tell you everything," she said firmly.

"Yes, you do," Mrs. Patmore said doggedly, hoping that a good offence would obscure the vacuousness of her words.

Daisy raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I'll tell you, but not because I have to."

"Have it your own way." Mrs. Patmore had no troublesome scruples about means and ends. She dried her hands and waited for Daisy to continue.

"It were from Gwen," Daisy said. "Her mother-in-law's finally on the mend and she's had time to write."

The cook tried to look receptive to this remark, though it was not the information she sought. "Good," she said.

"She also said there's a school for women like me that I could go to and learn how to do things like accounting and management so that I could open my own shop. It's called Hillcroft. Her husband, Mr. Harding, is on the board. She says if I make an application soon, I might be admitted by the new year." Daisy's eyes were sparkling. Though she struggled to relate this news in an indifferent manner, she could not contain her enthusiasm.

Well, that was progress! Mrs. Patmore had almost reconciled herself to Daisy's leaving, though the idea of it still pained her. Mr. Mason was more stoic about it, or perhaps just put up a better front. Or maybe it was because he was a man. But having accepted the inevitable, other considerations now popped into Mrs. Patmore's mind.

"It'll be expensive," she said. She didn't have to know how much to know that this kind of education would be beyond the means of an assistant cook in Yorkshire.

"There are scholarships and things," Daisy said vaguely. "The whole purpose is to help working class women better themselves."

"Is that what you want, then? A shop?" The idea made Mrs. Patmore look at Daisy with an eye to such an enterprise. The young woman was engaging enough, the cook thought, and genuinely liked people. And if she put her mind to it, Mrs. Patmore was confident she'd come out all right, though there were still some rough edges.

But on this Daisy hesitated. "I don't know," she said honestly. "But I know that I would like to go to school. I didn't appreciate it when I were a girl and then it stopped." She came out of her thoughts and stared at Mrs. Patmore. "Where'd you learn it all anyway?"

"All what?"

Daisy gestured around them. "All that you do. And then your bed-and-breakfast and everything. How did you learn to do the books?"

"Hard work!" Mrs. Patmore responded automatically. It used to be the answer to everything. "And I was apprenticed," she added. "As you were. Working in kitchens from the ground up, although I started right in as a kitchen maid, not a scullery maid." She was proud of that fact. "I've put in my years, I tell you. And there are a lot of numbers in running a kitchen."

"But your bed-and-breakfast is a real business."

"A simple one. I keep it simple. It helps that I own the house. A shop would be a much bigger undertaking."

"That's why I need to go to school." Daisy folded the dish towel she'd been using to dry the dishes and hung it up. "Pastry dough next," she said and Mrs. Patmore nodded agreeably. She assembled the ingredients, but Mrs. Patmore saw Daisy's eyes stray her way more than once.

"What is it?"

This time Daisy responded without hedging. "They're coming from Brancaster this weekend, I hear. Lady Hexham and her family."

Daisy had not spoken of Mrs. Drewe's letter in a while nor even made a disparaging class comment in more than a week. Mrs. Patmore had hoped her revolutionary spirit might have dimmed.

"You're not still on about that," she said, with an air of impatience.

"I'll not be forgetting it!" Daisy said defiantly. And then added, almost to herself, "I wonder if Lord Hexham knows about all that."

Mrs. Patmore gave her a warning look. "That's not your story to tell, Daisy."

 **Baxter and Molesley**

Miss Baxter was both excited and nervous. It could hardly be otherwise. She was invited to tea at the home of old Mr. Molesley. _Her_ Mr. Molesley, as she called him in her head to distinguish him from his father, had issued the invitation, but that hardly stilled her apprehensions. She had met the older man a few times, but exchanged only a handful of words with him. She thought he must be a kind man, given his son's nature, but this was not always the case.

Anxiety was offset to a degree by the prospect of taking tea with _her_ Mr. Molesley. He'd seemed quite buoyant when he dropped by the Abbey on Monday evening to make the arrangements. She was glad to see the change in him from the summer months when he had laboured under the shadows from his past. Miss Baxter wondered how he had shaken them off and then thought perhaps it was the return to teaching that had done it. He did love being in a classroom.

Mr. Molesley came to Downton to fetch her and they walked down to the village together in a slight drizzle. He talked animatedly about the schoolchildren and their studies. Miss Baxter could not help but smile as she listened to him. He'd always had a pleasant manner when he worked at the Abbey, but these days he glowed. This was what it was like, she thought, to love your work. Miss Baxter was glad of her job, appreciated the kindness of her employers, and believed she served them well. But she did not wake every morning with the sense of exhilaration that seemed manifest in every word Mr. Molesley spoke.

"You're in very good humour," she remarked. It was an observation made from her own gladness for him.

"I am," he said brightly and his gaze rested on her for a moment, a half-eager, half-shy look that she found exciting, even though it also discomfited her just a little.

As they neared his father's cottage, Miss Baxter's apprehensions stirred more vigorously and she slowed. Mr. Molesley noticed.

"Is there something the matter?" he asked solicitously.

"I don't know your father," she said.

He gave her a reassuring smile. "My Dad's a fine man. He's easy to get along with. You'll see."

But this day not allay her anxiety. "Does he ... know about me?" she asked. "About my past?" How that transgression haunted her! It was the kind of thing that made a person a pariah, for no respectable person would readily associate themselves with a thief. Miss Baxter thanked God profusely every night for Her Ladyship's magnanimity and Mrs. Carson's forbearance. But she well knew how few others would have shown the same consideration.

"No," he said. "But it wouldn't matter if he did," he went on hurriedly. "He knows about me and the war and he's never said a word about it."

"You're his son," Miss Baxter pointed out.

But there was nothing to be done about it. They had arrived.

William Molesley had been waiting at the window and had the door open before they reached the step. Inside, Miss Baxter was enveloped by the warmth of a good fire and a kind host. She'd not been catered to in her life, not until she'd met Joseph Molesley. His father, a white-haired man with an arthritic bend in his back, proved more adept at it than ever his awkward son was. He settled her at the table and immediately poured her a cup of tea so as to "chase away the chill." And he quickly put her at ease with a stream of gentle gossip about the village that required no input from her. In the glow of the elder Molesley's hospitality, Miss Baxter had time to relax.

 _Her_ Mr. Molesley helped his father with the food, making sure that she had everything she needed. Every once in a while he added something to one of his father's stories, but for the most part he listened as attentively as she did, laughing at all the right moments. And occasionally he glanced shyly her way. Miss Baxter felt her cheeks grow warm when their eyes met. Being at his father's table, rather than looking at each other across the servants' hall at Downton made a difference. Despite these feelings, she was charmed by the Molesleys, father and son. _They like each other_ , she thought. It was pleasant to see.

"How's that young man you've taken in?" William Molesley asked his son.

"Mr. Ryder. He's very pleasant." Molesley glanced at Miss Baxter. "Do you like him?"

She could hardly say she knew Daniel Ryder for she saw him only at meals and had never had a conversation with him. "He seems nice."

"Fancy you taking in boarders," the elder Molesley said.

"He needed a room and I had an extra one," the son said easily. "I wouldn't go in for it generally, letting rooms. But..it's nice to have someone about the house."

"But a cottage all your own." Miss Baxter had never had anything all to herself. She'd even had to share a prison cell.

Molesley's head bobbed at bit as he considered it. "I've never lived alone," he said. "And I _do_ enjoy it. Or did, before Mr. Ryder came along. But ... I've not the habit of being alone, I guess."

"You get used to it," William Molesley said in a matter-of-fact way. As a widower for some decades, he could speak with authority. "I've seen your Mr. Ryder. What's he doing in Yorkshire, a man like that?"

Miss Baxter thought perhaps that this was a bit of a saw for Mr. Molesley and that the two men had had this conversation before, but the younger Molesley responded patiently.

"He's helping Mr. Carson to write his book on the family, Dad. He reads and takes notes and when they get 'round to actually putting it together, he'll write it up, too. Mr. Carson can't really write that much anymore, not with his palsy."

William Molesley made a sympathetic sound. "It were arthritis that did me in," he murmured. "But I've got my cottage and a pension," he added gamely.

"Dad was a gardener at the Abbey," Mr. Molesley said proudly. "Head gardener, in the greenhouses."

"Worked there from when I were a boy," the older man said.

For the first time Miss Baxter wondered why her Mr. Molesley had not followed in his father's footsteps. His gentleness and sensitivity would have found an outlet in that environment, in the greenhouses anyway, among the delicate plants cultivated there. But she supposed it wasn't so strange that he had not. She remembered vaguely that Mr. Carson's father had also been employed on the estates, in the stables as she recalled it. Perhaps both fathers had seen service in the great house as a step up for their sons. Or perhaps it was the ambitions of the sons themselves or their natural inclinations. Her Mr. Molesley might tend to flowers, but she could not see him at the hard physical labour required in the vegetable gardens. And she could not imagine Mr. Carson in the stables at all.

"Would you like to see my garden?"

The question drew Miss Baxter back to the conversation. A slow smile spread across her face. "I would," she said eagerly. Her acquaintance with old Mr. Molesley might have been slight, but everyone in the village knew that his garden was his pride and joy.

"It's raining, Dad." Molesley said this very mildly but with evident concern for Miss Baxter's well-being.

His father turned abruptly and stared at him. "Aye, and we've an umbrella or two. It all looks so different in the rain," he added earnestly to Miss Baxter. "You can come again sometime when the sun is shining."

So they trooped out to the garden. It was the end of the season, so nothing was at its best. Miss Baxter could only imagine the splendour of this treasured enclave at the height of summer. But the time of year hardly mattered, for Mr. Molesley, who was engaging enough on topics of general interest, became positively mesmerizing when talking about the denizens of his garden. He caressed the leaves and handled the stems tenderly and spoke of each with an intimacy that reflected a lifetime's devotion. Miss Baxter had never heard anything like it.

Then they retired to the tiny sitting room and the fire to warm up again and Miss Baxter settled into a comfortable old over-stuffed chair and listened to the casual conversation between father and son that ranged over the price of tobacco to the amount of rain that summer to the fate of the Grantham Arms to the results of local sports matches.

"Fancy seeing Mr. Carson at a cricket match," William Molesley said. "And two weeks in a row. I've not seen him about like that since he were a lad."

"Well, he's retired now," Molesley said complacently. " _And_ he's got someone to go with. Mr. Ryder," he added, for Miss Baxter's benefit. "I doubt Mrs. Carson's one for sports."

They all enjoyed a warm chuckle at that thought.

"They get on, Mr. Carson and Mr. Ryder," Molesley mused, sounding a little surprised by that fact. "I didn't know Mr. Carson liked anyone. Except Mrs. Carson, of course."

Miss Baxter did not say so, but she agreed. Mr. Carson had always been polite to her, but she wouldn't have said that he _liked_ her. It was one of the aspects of Mrs. Carson - Mrs. Hughes as she had then been - that had impressed her in her early days at Downton Abbey - that the housekeeper was not at all daunted by the former butler. Mr. Barrow, try as he might, would never wield authority in quite the same way as Mr. Carson had.

After a while they said their thanks and goodbyes and began their stroll back to the Abbey. The rain had stopped. For the first few minutes they strolled in silence, reveling in the satisfaction of a pleasant afternoon spent in good company.

"I wanted to tell you," Mr. Molesley said abruptly.

"What is it?" She stopped, momentarily apprehensive until she saw the way he was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was excited about something. He had behaved thus when he'd been offered the position at the school.

"I was going to tell you _and_ Dad," he went on, a little hurriedly. "But then I thought you ought to know first, because you were so kind about it and it's really why, I think, the idea came to me in the first place..."

"What _is_ it?" She was bewildered, but smiling at his animated manner.

"I've thought of something to do," he declared.

She didn't know what to make of that.

"You said I could ... I should try to think of something ... to make amends," he went on. "About the war." Making an explicit allusion to his great burden tempered his enthusiasm somewhat.

"Oh!" That _was_ good news. "What is it? If you want to tell me, that is." Miss Baxter rarely made assumptions and felt a little chastened to have done so.

But he smiled at her. "Of course I do. I want to put on a play, with the schoolchildren."

She didn't quite see it, so she only continued to stare at him.

"About the men who served," he said. "And died. Twenty-eight of them on the estate alone. Their names are on the memorial in the village."

"Oh."

He rushed on. "I've been wracking my brain ... and praying, as you suggested ... hoping something would come to me. And I can tell you, I was becoming a little impatient about it, though I know well enough that God works in His own time and I ought to be a better servant to His wishes, but ... I had hoped... And then...when Ambassador Houghton was here last weekend he said, at dinner that night, that their stories ought not to be forgotten. And then one of the children, at the school asked me the other day why history was all about great men and couldn't ordinary people make history, too, and I...it came to me." Words were spilling from his mouth in his eagerness to convey to her his idea. "The stories of the _local_ men will never be in the history books. There are too many of them, all over England. Millions. And only a handful can become famous - George Wyatt, Albert Ball. But _we_ can remember them and as more than just names on the cenotaph. We can _tell_ their stories, so that everyone in the village knows them, old and young, not just their own families." He paused and gazed at her with that eager uncertainty that she had seen in his face before. "What do you think?"

"It's wonderful." And she spoke with feeling, too. He really was so smart and kind and sensitive. She knew nothing about the men of whom he spoke, or their families, or even that much about the war, so much had she been wrapped up in her own very constrained world of just making a living. But she had some idea of what this meant to Mr. Molesley. It sounded so daunting, this plan of his, but it had clearly seized his imagination. "It sounds wonderful, " she said again.

That was all he needed. He'd worked out a lot of the organizational details and these cascaded from him in rapid succession, sometimes getting tangled up in one another in his haste to express them. But by the time they'd reached the coal yard, she had a fair idea of what he wanted to do.

"Do you think the families will be pleased?" she asked, hoping he would not be thwarted by local feeling.

"Well, I'll ask permission, of course," he said promptly.

She might have known. Her Mr. Molesley was ever considerate. "I'm so pleased for you," she said.

"It'll mean a lot of work," he added, taking a cautionary tone. "And, obviously, I've never done anything like it before. But I think I can get around it," he went on, nodding. "I'd like to have it ready for the Armistice. That only gives me seven, eight weeks."

She put a hand on his arm and squeezed it a little, words having failed her. He stood taller at this gentle touch.

"Thank you for a lovely afternoon," she said. "Your father _is_ very kind."

He grinned and she thought it was a compliment he was sure to have heard before.

"He likes you very much," he said.

With a last lingering look they parted.

 ***A/N1.** You will recall how, in the Second Season, when Sybil was departing for her medical training, Violet waved her away to her duty, reminding Mary and Edith about their Great Aunt Roberta: "She loaded the guns at Lucknow." Lucknow was an incident during the great Indian Mutiny of 1857. The Crawleys would have heard and embraced the British imperial interpretation of this whole dark episode in colonial relations, and sided completely with white British subjects who found themselves astronomically outnumbered and under siege in quite terrifying conditions.

 ****A/N2.** In the Timeline of Downton Wiki, Robert's father is Patrick Crawley and he served in the Crimea. There is no annotation for this, no evidence from canon to support it. In _my_ version of Downton, Robert's father is Joseph Crawley. I have made up the bit about a great-uncle Patrick and the Charge of the Light Brigade, and also the bit about Joseph Crawley accompanying Prince Alfred on his world tour, as well as the detail of his falling overboard. The only incident listed here that is consistent with canon is Great Aunt Roberta's adventure.

 *****A/N3.** That Carson grew up at Downton, that his father and grandfather worked on the estate there, and that his parents are buried in the churchyard along with an infant brother are all works of my own imagination with no foundation in canon. I developed these aspects in other stories, including _Getting Married_ , Chapter 11, and in the first few chapters of _I Loved Her First_ , and have possibly mentioned them elsewhere.

 ******A/N4.** This is another self-referential tidbit, elaborated in _I Loved Her First_ , Chapter 3 "The Heart Stirs Again."


	24. Chapter 24

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **EPISODE 6.**

 **Chapter 3. _Friday September 17, 1926_**

 **The Hexhams Arrive**

The Hexhams - Bertie, Edith, and Marigold - began their visit to Downton with a disappointment. At Sybbie's insistence, Tom had arranged with his sisters-in-law for George and Marigold to spend Saturday night at the old agent's cottage. Edith had wondered whether Marigold would be able to spend a night away from her parents, but Mary's exasperated response - "For goodness sake, Edith! You're gone to London several nights a months! And Tom's cottage is closer to Downton than the nursery is to the master bedroom at Brancaster!" - had secured her consent. Tom had almost regretted showing Mary the letter with Edith's hesitation.

But the visitors had hardly made themselves comfortable in the library before Tom broke the news. He tried to make light of it.

"It just isn't a good time," he said casually. "We'll do it next time you're here."

Edith seemed almost relieved. Mary came across unconvinced and her eyes strayed in Edith's direction, assuming the change in plans had come from that direction. But she chose not to press the issue, having other things on her mind, only informing Tom that George would be terribly disappointed. "He's talked of nothing else for two weeks," she said, a little reproachfully. "What about the christening?"

"Christening?" Edith looked up sharply.

Tom gave her a little smile. "We've decided on a name for our new home. Shamrock Cottage." He said this _sotto voce_ , with a glance toward Robert who was having a word with Barrow across the room. "It was Sybbie's choice. She wanted something Irish. "

"And good for her," Mary said firmly, _not_ glancing at her father. Why shouldn't Tom and Sybbie call the cottage what they liked?

"We won't break a bottle of champagne over it until we're all together," Tom said, responding to Mary's question. "Although I've put up the shingle with the name on it. Sybbie didn't want to wait."

"Has something else happened?" Henry murmured, as he and Tom moved to stand before the fireplace.

"Yes." Tom told him of the grouse. "Better safe than sorry," he added, but ignored the look Henry gave him. He knew his brother-in-law wanted to make the incidents public, at least within the family.

The Hexhams had happier tidings.

"All the formalities have been concluded!" Edith announced. "Marigold is now legally our daughter!"

Cora and Robert received the news with enthusiasm.

"Thank God," Violet said with feeling, more relieved than anything else.

Tom and Henry offered their warm congratulations.

Mary embraced her sister, which was a little awkward. "I'm so pleased for you, Edith," Mary declared, with a ringing sincerity of tone. "Now things are as they should be."

Over Mary's shoulder, Edith exchanged puzzled glances with Tom, but he had no explanation for this departure on Mary's part.

"My dear chap, congratulations." Robert earnestly shook Bertie's hand. "You're _officially_ a father." In anticipation of this news, which Edith had broadly hinted at in her last letter, Robert had had Barrow put some champagne on ice. Now they drank a toast to the new parents.

"How are things at Brancaster?" Robert asked Bertie. The two of them were standing apart from the others.

The Marquis of Hexham shrugged. "The demands are endless," he said. "Just to come away for a few days took so much planning. I _was_ the agent for three years, but I had no idea of the obligations involved. My cousin Peter shirked them all, taking refuge in Tangiers. But I've neither his determination to avoid it all nor his resilience in the face of criticism. I was not made for this," he added, with a sigh.

Robert frowned a little, uncomprehending. "You were the heir to a marquisate all your adult life," he said, "and second in line from birth. You were made _precisely_ for this."

Bertie stared at him. "But Cousin Peter was to inherit. And to marry and have a son," he protested. "And to live," he added more soberly.

"My cousin James and, after Cora and I had given up on producing an heir, his son Patrick, were ever at Downton," Robert said. "Even before I'd married, James had been brought in to become acquainted with the estate so that, in the event of catastrophe, he might be prepared. And when catastrophe _did_ strike - it struck James and Patrick, of course, not me directly - I invited Matthew Crawley to take up residence at Downton and immerse himself in the life that he might be properly prepared as well."

"Well, that wasn't how things were at Brancaster, I'm afraid," Bertie admitted, with a rueful smile. "I only got the job as agent because I think Cousin Peter felt sorry for me."

The subject of Peter Pelham, the Sixth Marquis of Hexham, was a delicate one and Robert chose his words carefully. "Did it never occur to you that perhaps Lord Hexham appointed you agent of Brancaster so that you might gain experience the management of the estate in the event that he ... did _not_ marry and sire an heir?"

The credulous look on Bertie's face showed that no such thought had ever crossed his mind. Robert sipped his champagne and shook his head.

"I ... had no idea, really," Bertie said, sounding as shaken as he looked at Robert's words. "Often in the morning when I wake up, I wonder if I couldn't just get up and move us all to London and lead a ...well, a more conventional life."

"You are joking." It was clear that Robert was not at all amused.

"Well, of course I can't, but..."

"No, you can't." Robert was as assertive now as he ever got. This was a subject on which he had a formidable expertise. "Brancaster is your duty. And there's no good saying you weren't born to it, because you were. Now you must get on with it."

Before Bertie could respond to this unanticipated directive, Robert spoke again.

"And part of your responsibility as the Marquis of Brancaster is to produce an heir. You've been married for a good nine months. Is there...a problem?" It was an even more delicate issue, but almost one of fundamental importance in aristocratic circles where so much landed wealth and the responsibilities that went with it were concerned.

The approach at that moment of Tom and Henry was not unwelcome to either man. Bertie responded animatedly to his brothers-in-law's queries about the cars of Brancaster, grateful to bring the interrogation from Robert to an end. For his part, Robert drifted across the room to join Cora and Edith and Mary. _Mary_. Why was she being so attentive to Edith?

Before Barrow came in to announce dinner, Mary managed to maneuvre her father to one side.

"Papa."

"Ah," he murmured, allowing himself to be so maneuvred. "Are you about to tell me _why_ you've so warm toward Edith this afternoon?"

"Because she's my sister," Mary said smoothly. "Is that so hard to believe?" She did not wait for an answer nor, it seemed, even expect one. "I wanted to talk to you about Barrow."

"Barrow?"

"And Henry."

Robert searched her face for clues. "You've got me now. I can't imagine a scenario that involves Barrow and Henry."

She tossed her head. "That's because you're not quite as imaginative as I am. You see, Papa, Henry is intent on pursuing the connections he made with the German automobile industry..."

"Through his rude friend, you mean."

"Reinhard Morden behaved perfectly well. It was his odious acquaintance, Mr. Ribbentrop, we disliked so much."

Robert conceded this.

"But, yes, Henry has been in contact with Herr Morden and has it in mind to go to Berlin at the beginning of October to discuss matters further."

"Better there than here."

"Precisely," Mary said pleasantly. "That's our thinking as well. And Henry is more than happy to do it that way. Only..."

"I was wondering when you'd get to that part."

"Dearest Papa."

He sighed.

Mary smiled indulgently at him. "Reinhard Morden's family may have been dispossessed by Weimar, but they are still _Junker_ class and are part of the highest circles of German society."

Robert was bemused. "Does he want to borrow my tie and tails?"

"No," Mary said, laughing more than necessary at his feeble joke. "Just your butler."

This did take him aback. "My butler? What for?"

"He needs a valet, Papa. A proper valet. He can hardly take Bates. And Barrow is almost as good. Which would you rather do without for a few days - your butler or your valet?"

"I'd rather not do without either, thank you. In fact, I rather wish my daughter wasn't always trying to poach my butler."

It was an allusion to Mary's effort, years earlier, to take Carson with her when she married Sir Richard Carlisle. Fortunately her plans - for Carson and, indeed, with Sir Richard - had fallen through. No one regretted these developments.

"Why would Barrow want to hang up his butler's livery, so hard won on his part, to become a valet again? Even for a weekend?"

"Four days, actually," Mary said, smiling through the imposition. "I think he'll do it if _I_ ask him. But I need your permission first."

Robert stared at her, resigned. "What are _we_ supposed to do for those _four_ days?"

"I'll ask Carson to look in," Mary said promptly and with a confidence both of a lifetime's reliance on the old butler and an expectation that Carson would do anything she asked of him. She had thought it all out. "Try to avoid having anyone over for dinner on those dates and I'm certain the footmen will attend you properly. Lewis could probably manage it on his own," she added, as a bit of an aside. She, too, had noted the assiduousness with which he pursued his work.

"Arrange it with Barrow, then," Robert said, yielding. "And don't do it again!"

Mary squeezed his arm. "Thank you, Papa."

"You'll have to be pleasant to Edith for the _entire_ weekend," Robert said in a warning tone. "As recompense."

Her smile broadened. "Done."

She walked away leaving her father wondering why he felt like he'd been robbed twice.

 **Edith and Bertie**

"Mary was very strange all evening," Edith said, slipping into bed beside her husband. She nestled her head on Bertie's shoulder and placed a hand lightly on his chest. "She was ... well, if it were anyone else I'd have said _friendly_. She asked if Marigold and I would like to join her and George and Sybbie for a walk and a picnic tomorrow. A sort of solace for the disappointment of the sleepover."

Bertie put a hand over hers, enjoying the touch of her hand brushing back and forth against his skin. "Perhaps it is _real_ friendliness," he said.

Edith laughed aloud. Bertie could be so unworldly at times. "Perhaps she wants to discuss Granny," she said, trying to rationalize Mary's behaviour.

Though she spoke of her sister, Bertie discerned in her words her ongoing concern for her grandmother. He reached out to entangle his fingers in the silky curls that framed her face. "She _is_ looking frail, your grandmother."

"I'm going to see her on Sunday afternoon. We made the arrangements at dinner. Would you mind terribly, darling, if I went alone? Granny's never been one for small children at close quarters, so I wasn't going to take Marigold in any case. But it will be difficult enough extracting any meaningful information about her health from her even if it's only me."

"I understand perfectly, darling."

She kissed him then and felt him sigh with pleasure.

"I wish they'd put us somewhere else," she said, looking around the room, her old bedroom. "I cried too often here."

To Bertie that sounded like a problem that needed solving. "Then we should make some good memories to displace those times," he said energetically, reaching for her.

For several minutes they kissed and caressed and laughed together. But when Bertie turned over to put out the light, Edith stopped him.

"They are all a _very_ long way down the corridor, darling." At the slightly exasperated look on her face, he obligingly desisted.

"You looked a bear in the library before dinner," she said, feathering her fingers down the side of his face, a gesture he might have found tantalizing had he not been derailed by her words. "Weren't you enjoying Papa's company?"

Bertie rarely came over vexed or disagreeable, but he frowned now. "No. I wasn't. Your papa was reading me the _Riot Act_ \- about Brancaster, about embracing my duties as the _Marquis_ , about producing an heir!"

"Really? Papa?"

"Yes. You know, I don't think he really understands my situation in the least."

Edith _was_ surprised at her father's forthright remarks, but ... she supposed she wasn't either. "Doesn't he?" She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down into Bertie's dismayed countenance. "I should have thought if anyone knew what you were facing as the Marquis of Hexham it would be the Earl of Grantham."

"Well he doesn't," Bertie said, almost petulantly, his eyes flashing a little. "He looked positively astonished when I told him how hard it was to arrange to get away for a few days. I only want a bit of time to spend with you and Marigold somewhere where I won't always have to be the concerned landlord or the benign aristocrat. But the work never ends. I'm always _on._ Your father doesn't understand _that_."

Edith was sympathetic, but a little perplexed as well. "Papa went away for two and a half years to the South African War. Downton didn't fall apart. Perhaps he wonders at the fuss."

Bertie now pushed himself up to a sitting position, looking more irritable than she had seen him since they had been married. "Your Papa had Carson running the Abbey and someone equally ancient and experienced as agent. He could have gone away for _ten_ years, like King Richard. I've only just _been_ the agent for three years. And whatever your father may say about it, I wasn't groomed from the cradle as he was. He _knows_ it won't all fall apart if he looks away. I'm not sure."

"Ohhh." Edith bent over him, kissing his forehead, smoothing out the lines that had formed there. "You are Bertie Pelham, the Marquis of Hexham in your own right," she said, punctuating her words with soft kisses. "You may play the part any way you want and need not give way to Papa or anyone else. We'll manage Brancaster."

Brancaster was fading rapidly from his consciousness with the proximity of his wife. His fingers traced the hemline of her silken negligee, searching for passage to the silkier flesh beneath. "You are the most creative mind beneath this roof, my love," he murmured against her lips. "Imagine us away from here."

The desire in his voice was intoxicating. Edith cast aside bad memories and inhibiting sensibilities and dissolved into his arms.

 **Daisy**

Mr. Mason - Dad, as Daisy now called him without conscious thought - had gone up to bed, leaving her alone in the kitchen at the great trestle table. He kept to a regular schedule but he never said a word when Daisy lingered over a cooling cup of tea. He understood that a body sometimes wanted - needed - a bit of solitude.

They'd been talking about Hillcroft and Dad had been as generous as usual.

"If there are any fees to be paid, we can manage them," he'd said firmly.

Daisy had given up contradicting him about the way he had extended ownership of resources and savings to her. She was his daughter, he would stubbornly insist. What was his was hers also.

"I still don't know what I'll do when I get through with school," she'd said, half holding out the chance that she might be back. She felt a twinge of conscience when she remembered that he had reached out to her after William's demise as a replacement for the children who had all left him by death. She was not abandoning him that way, but would not moving to London or elsewhere be in effect the same thing?

But he swept her hesitant reassurance aside, focusing instead on what she might learn. "The future will come clearer to you as you go along. You don't want to be making promises at this stage of the game."

She thought he was looking a little older as he got up to go to bed. It wasn't the work. He was as spry about that as ever. She thought perhaps it was more to do with Mrs. Patmore, though she knew without his saying it in so many words that he'd given up there. Mrs. Patmore had said nothing about it either, and Daisy didn't know how to broach the topic with her or whether she even should. Once Daisy had selfishly opposed any association between the two, but having come to accept the possibility she was a little sad that it had not come to pass.

Her mind shifted to other things.

After the upstairs dinner that evening, the staff had gathered as they always did for their own dinner and naturally there was talk about the visitors from Brancaster.

"She's done all right for herself, Lady Edith," Andy said over the mutton stew.

"Better than you can imagine," Mr. Barrow said. "I've been to Brancaster Castle."

"Is it that grand?" Daisy had asked, pausing with a platter of sliced bread.

"It's like a fairy tale castle," Miss Baxter said. "It's so much bigger even than Downton Abbey."

"Is Strathmere Hall a grand estate?" Mr. Barrow addressed this question to the footman, Lewis, who, Daisy had noticed, was usually quiet at mealtimes. And every other time besides. She had heard him say nothing that was not related to his work.

At the question, Lewis had put down his cutlery, folded his hands, and turned solemn eyes upon the butler. "Strathmere Hall was my former place of employment. Now I work at Downton Abbey. I would prefer not to make comparisons, Mr. Barrow."

That made for a bit of an uncomfortable pause until Andy, determined not to be quenched by his colleague's acute fastidiousness, spoke up again. "It was nice to see Miss Marigold with His Lordship and Her Ladyship. She's a sweet little girl."

There was air in the room again.

"And they've adopted her now," Andy went on. "A fairy tale ending for a little girl living in a fairy tale castle." He grinned, clearly pleased by that outcome.

Daisy was glad to withdraw to the kitchen at that point, ostensibly to retrieve another platter of food, but relieved to have just a moment to herself. Andy's offhand mention of Miss Marigold had taken her breath away, as though she'd been hit hard in the stomach. It was one thing to reflect upon the tragedy of the Drewes in the abstract, and quite another to have Lady Edith - Lady Hexham, rather - flaunting her inconsideration so openly. Daisy's ire had risen at Andy's innocent allusion and though she'd managed to suppress a reaction that might have drawn Mrs. Patmore's scrutiny or, later, Dad's concern, her anger had not dissipated.

And now she was finally alone and could address it directly.

She went to her room and retrieved the letter she had found in the bottle. Returning to the kitchen, she flattened it on the table and read it through again. Although she was quite familiar with it now, the seams showing the strain of frequent folding and unfolding, the contents still made her blood boil.

 _Lady Edith_! She spat the name. The woman was so despicable and thus far had escaped retribution for her loathsome actions. The Drewes could do nothing about it. But Daisy had decided that she was not so helpless to act. Mrs. Drewe had given her the material. She had only to devise the means and the Hexhams' visit had created an opportunity. Now she went to the desk in the corner of the room and withdrew from it two sheets of writing paper and a pencil. Sitting at the table again, she paused to gather her thoughts.

In Daisy's heated mind, Lady Edith's life - at least insofar as the child Marigold was concerned - was a web of lies and deception. Her family - parents, sister and brother-in-law, too, probably - knew the truth. But Daisy doubted that anyone else did. And there was certainly one person whom Daisy believed had the right to know.

Taking a deep breath, she began to write.

As the words multiplied on the page, Daisy felt a twinge of conscience. Dad would frown on this. He did not believe that one bad turn deserved another. Apparently Sunday school lessons had made a lasting impression on him. He would urge Daisy to find the strength to rise above it. And he would tell her, as a last resort, that it was none of her business, as Mrs. Patmore had done. But the letter had come to _her_ almost as though it had been directed by a higher hand and she felt an obligation to do _something_.

She took her time and crafted her words well. Miss Bunting had helped her that much. And Mr. Molesley, too. When it was done, she held it up in the weak light and read it over. It said what she wanted to say. Satisfied, she picked up the pen to add her name and then put it down again. In silence she folded the paper and put it in her apron pocket alongside Mrs. Drewe's agonized missive. Then she turned off the light and went up to bed.


	25. Chapter 25

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **EPISODE 6.**

 **Chapter 4. _Saturday September 18, 1926_**

 **Mary and Anna**

"It was exhausting," Mary told Anna when dressing for dinner. "I asked every question I could think of - about Brancaster and the magazine, about Bertie and Marigold, about the tedium of travelling from one end of the country to the other on business every other week, about Bertie's mother! for goodness sake! And I listened carefully to the answers, too, so I'd have more fodder for further questions." Mary paused to take a breath. "And I paid attention to Marigold, of course."

"My lady?" Anna couldn't quite see how Marigold fit into this odd inquisition.

"I know well enough that the key to any mother's heart is through praise and attention to her child," Mary said archly, and then added, with a bit of a smile, "How is Robbie, by the way?"

They both laughed.

"He's very well, thank you," Anna replied. But she was still puzzled. "What were you up to?" It did seem strange, Lady Mary deliberately seeking out Lady Hexham's company. She draped the dress over Mary's head and began to pull it slowly into place.

"You'll laugh if I tell you," Mary said, between the folds of cloth. "No, worse, you'll think me quite pathetic."

Anna had heard the worst of Lady Mary and yet returned to dress her another day. She said nothing, confident that Lady Mary would out with it no matter how foolish it might sound. That was how they were together.

"I was trying to make friends with my sister."

Her words lay flatly on the floor between them. They both knew quite how preposterous they sounded. Anna remained silent, only raising an inquiring eyebrow.

Mary nodded. "I told you it was stupid. Only... my grandmother said something to me a few weeks ago about not having any friends. Any female friends, that is. I thought she might have a point."

For a long moment Anna worked on adjusting the dress, buttoning it up, smoothing down any unsightly lines. She circled Mary with a critical eye and then, satisfied with her work, went to collect the jewellery pieces from the bureau.

"I thought first about Mabel Gillingham...," Mary went on.

"At the races last weekend."

"Yes. But what a bore she turned out to be." Mary was nothing if not frank. "She has a great estate and doesn't care a bit about how it's being run. I had to ask Tony what their annual crop yield was and what the tenant rates were. All Mabel could talk about was the baby she's going to have." Mary stopped short of complaining about Mabel's extended account of the trials she had endured to become pregnant. Anna had had woes of her own in that area.

"So who else is there?" Mary demanded, though almost immediately she felt slightly uncomfortable. She pulled at the collar of her dress. Anna re-adjusted it. "Lady Hexham. Desperate straits indeed."

"Why ... Lady Hexham?" Anna asked carefully.

"Well, she and I already have a lot in common, obviously. How hard could it be to establish some kind of a connection with her? We both have children now, we're both worried...about the same things." Mary had not as yet confided in Anna about her concerns for her grandmother. Rather like her parents, she was carrying on as usual absent an unavoidable crisis.

"It ought to be easy for us," she finished emphatically.

"Was Lady Hexham boring, too?" Anna could ask this presumptuous question. Lady Mary had always made it clear she would never rise to her sister's defense in a conversation with Anna.

"No. Surprisingly not. She has a head for business. She's been using it at Brancaster as well as at the magazine. And while Marigold isn't a patch on George - or Sybbie, for that matter - she is a sweet child and I can't blame her mother for doting on her. Although Lady Hexham is a bit excessive in her attentions. And we _do_ have the family to discuss. It ought to be _easy_ for us!"

"But you've _never_ gotten on with her," Anna said, stating the obvious.

"I know. But ought one not be able to _will_ something into existence? We are rational beings after all. Why can't we just set all that aside and...be friends?" Mary made an exasperated sound. "You're giving me a look."

"Well, friendship doesn't work that way," Anna said, shaking her head a bit. Lady Mary was usually more astute than this.

A cross look descended on Mary, an acknowledgment of failure and her impatience with it. "Oh, I know. That is, my other friendships - with men - came so easily." She caught Anna's eye again. "I was floundering like an amateur with Lady Hexham this morning. I was not myself at all. She must have thought me quite stupid. Even more so than usual, that is."

She held her head erect as Anna slipped her necklace on. "Perhaps I should ignore my grandmother's advice." She watched as Anna crossed the room to collect Mary's shoes.

"How are things with you and Bates?" she asked. The question fell more naturally from her lips than any she had asked of Edith. "Have you sold your house in London yet?"

Anna smiled so quickly and so brilliantly that Mary was startled.

"Not _quite_ yet. But we've had an offer and ... this may be it!"

Anna had transformed in a moment from the efficient lady's maid to a woman glowing with the happy prospects of her life beyond the duties of her work. Mary noticed and felt both exultation for Anna's happiness and just a little pang of envy. She had known such happiness in her lifetime. Would she ever know it again?

"Is there something else?" Mary asked cautiously. "What has come of that ... those ... spells you were having?"

"Oh, that's all ... gone, past, my lady."

"But there is something else." There was no mistaking the excitement that Anna could hardly contain. Even not knowing what exactly it was, Mary felt a wave of relief. It must be good news. Anna could not be happy and facing difficulties at the same time.

"I'm going to have a baby!" Anna almost gasped out the words, so complete was her exhilaration.

Mary's eyes went round with surprise and ... joy. "Anna!" She seized Anna's hands in her own and her face lit up with a happiness that was mirrored in Anna's countenance. Almost as suddenly a catch arrested Mary's elation. "What about your ... problem? Is it too soon to call Dr. Rider? Will it be necessary again?" *****

"It is," Anna admitted, but even that did nothing to diminish her internal radiance. "We've talked to Dr. Ryder and we'll have to set aside a date soon."

"That's ... wonderful!" And it was. Mary felt none of the irritability she had felt upon hearing the minutiae of Mabel Gillingham's pregnancy. With Anna she wanted to know everything and for several minutes they discussed the usual details, such as when the baby would be born.

"Late April, likely," Anna said. "And in my own bed this time, hope!"

"I shouldn't mind if your second child was born in the same place," Mary assured her firmly. She had been so caught up in the relief of Anna having a child at last that the fact that Robbie was born in this very room was a minor element that subsequently made for an entertaining story. "...so long as you're both healthy." Her gaze lingered affectionately on Anna. "I am so happy for you and Bates. He's ecstatic, I imagine?"

Anna, her face split wide with the happiest of grins, nodded emphatically. She had no words to describe her husband's joy. Mary understood that, too.

"Now, have we forgotten anything?"

With her professional precision, Anna called them back to the present and subjected Lady Mary to an exacting appraisal, not unlike that of Mr. Carson examining a formal dinner setting.

"Everything is perfect," Mary declared, though her eyes were fixed on Anna and she did not give herself a glance in the looking glass.

"You'll set them on fire, my lady."

"Thank you, Anna."

 **John and Anna**

Anna was folding laundry when John came in, well after dark, home from turning His Lordship in for the evening. She looked up at him with a smile and he wound his arms about her, holding her close for a long moment. They would never tire of this.

"You shouldn't wait up for me," he chided her lightly, his warm breath tickling the sensitive curve of her neck.

She giggled in response. "I've got things to do," she said airily. "It's not _entirely_ a matter of wanting to set eyes on you outside of the servants' hall of Downton Abbey!"

They laughed. He kissed her tenderly. It never failed to amaze her how gentle was his embrace or how sweet and soft his mouth could be. She knew his inner nature intimately, but ths kind and caring side was something few people would have expected from John Bates. He seldom troubled to show anything of this capacity for empathy to anyone but her, save occasionally Lord Grantham or Mrs. Carson, both of whom he held in high regard.

"You need your rest," he persisted, loosening his embrace. "Why else have evenings off if you don't use them to catch your breath and restore your energy?"

"I have evenings off so I can tend to our son," Anna told him matter-of-factly, pushing him away so that she might fold the last of his vests.

"How is he?"

John had last seen his son only that afternoon, but there was an eagerness in his question and a light in his eyes that told Anna that he had been counting the minutes. He cherished their son. She loved to see that in him.

"Well," she drawled, "he ate almost all of his dinner, but spit out his peas."

"I don't blame him," John said with feeling. "I feel the same way about them."

'You do not," she scoffed, smiling. "You appreciate everything on your plate and are glad that God put it there."

"I _hope_ God, if a god there is, does not have the form of Mrs. Patmore." He affected an atheistic bent, but he had sought aid from and given thanks to that same God on one or two occasions.

She swatted him with the vest in her hand. "Let me finish this so we can be off to bed."

He leaned back against the table, a silly grin on his face as he enjoyed looking at her.

"How was your day?" he asked.

Of course they'd seen each other several times but not really had a conversation.

"Oh, well enough." His question drew her back to the matter that had been on her mind all evening and the thought of it dimmed her good humour just a little.

"What is it?"

He was too quick to pick up on the nuances of her tone, but that, she supposed, was the fruit of intimacy. She sighed a little.

"It's something Lady Mary said," she admitted. "When I was dressing her before dinner. It's ... silly, really." She repeated Lady Mary's word for it without conviction. It bothered her as it clearly also had, in a different way, bothered Lady Mary.

"Go on."

Anna frowned a little, tossed the last clothing into the basket, and then collapsed into a chair, looking up into his attentive gaze.

"She said... she was trying to make things up with Lady Hexham this weekend because they _ought_ to be friends, being sisters..."

"And does she hope to find a formula to turn lead into gold, too?" A smile crinkled John's face. "Because one's as likely as the other."

Anna did not smile at his joke. "Whatever comes of the effort, and I agree with you that it will be nought, the reason she's even thinking about it is because she said ... she said she has no friends. No women friends, that is. And she supposed she ought to."

John pulled out another chair and sat down right beside her. He understood. "She probably didn't mean it like that."

"Oh, I know what she meant," Anna said. "There's no one - no woman - of her own class that she is really close to. It was the Dowager who put this bee in her bonnet and now she's on the lookout for a friend. The sort she can invite in for tea or go to a museum exhibition with. Perhaps even the sort to whom she could pour out her heart in the full expectation of a confidence kept or someone to whom she could acknowledge heartbreak to or enlist to drag a dead body from one end of the Abbey to another."

They exchanged wry glances.

"She knows you to be a true friend," John said reassuringly, taking one of her hands.

"But she didn't..." Anna started and then stopped. Lady Mary's words had hurt her. "She didn't even... She didn't say that _we_ were friends. I'm just the ... the jar into which she can pour all her thoughts and fears and whims, but it doesn't ... _mean_ anything."

"You know that isn't true," John said firmly. "Lady Mary cares for you very much. And even if she doesn't use the _word_ friend, she can hardly deny the reality of your friendship."

"But she did," Anna insisted, her voice a little strained.

"Then she is in the wrong," John said doggedly. "Anna, I know the acknowledgment is important, but I think she _has_ acknowledged your friendship in other ways - as His Lordship has done with me and with Mr. Carson - in deed, rather than word."

It was so and both of them could recount a litany to prove it, but somehow the words _were_ important and she felt that Lady Mary had let her down.

"Anna." John spoke softly. "You've never expected the family to invite us to dinner, have you? Or to join their party at the races? You've always known there were lines between us. It's the way things are. Lady Mary is seeking a friend on her side of the line. That's all."

She sighed and leaned into him He buried a hand in her hair and drew her more closely still.

"Yes. I know," she said with a sigh. "I don't expect ... It's just..."

"I know," he said sympathetically. And she was certain that he did.

"Did you tell her our news?" he asked, after a while.

"I did." Anna pulled back a little now so that she could look at him. And smile. No grievance could keep her down when she thought of that. Unconsciously her hand moved to her abdomen though there was as yet little overt evidence of her condition. "She was pleased. Excited. Happy for us. And she asked whether I'd need to see Dr. Ryder again."

"And you said that we'll be taking care of it ourselves this time, thank you," he said. He was grateful for Lady Mary's intervention on Anna's behalf that had led them to the London doctor and, consequently, to the secure pregnancy that gave them Robbie. But he was responsible for his own family and was determined that this time they would manage their lives themselves.

"I did," Anna said, "though I put it a little more kindly."

"And Lady Mary," he went on, "may be feeling a little left out of things herself, on that score. We have our own lives, Anna."

It was easier for him, she thought. He had known Lord Grantham first during the South African War and in the military officers and men weren't friends. There was a culture there that had given John the foundations for a firm bond with Lord Grantham but allowed for distance, too, as a natural thing. Perhaps ladies and their maids were not meant to be friends either, but the boundaries were more blurred.

"I'm being silly," she said and laughed, though the hurt had not entirely dissipated.

"No," John said solemnly. "You're not. It's only natural to want to be recognized. Only I think the Crawleys have given us abundant evidence in things more fundamental than a dinner invitation or a cup of tea."

"What have you been up to?" Anna asked, ready to move on.

"Well," John drawled, and a grin curled his lips, "there _is_ news." He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a long, official-looking envelope.

Anna's eyes went round with anticipation. She knew what he was going to say.

"It came in the second post and you were nowhere to be found. And we didn't have a moment to ourselves at tea so..."

"John! We've sold the house!"

"We've sold the house!"

They fell into each other's arms.

"We're on our way, John," she whispered in his ear.

They had been perusing advertisements for property in a desultory sort of way, just to see what was out there they'd told each other. But now they could begin in earnest, now that they had the wherewithal to finance their dream.

"A hotel of our own," he breathed into her ear, " _and_ children all around us!"

 **Edith and Bertie**

A visit with the family was a bag of mixed blessings, Edith thought, as Bertie withdrew to his dressing room and her maid, Angela, helped her out of her evening clothes. After a peculiar day of _faux_ friendship from Mary - it was, as her grandmother liked to say, as though she had _stepped through the looking glass_ \- Edith was exhausted. Edith did not much like her sister, but she thought she preferred the one she knew to the stranger who had plied her with questions about her life at Brancaster and laughed at her jokes and generally taken an interest.

And Tom had seemed out of sorts, too, quieter than usual. And she'd found his explanation yesterday for the cancellation of the children's sleep-over not quite convincing. If he'd changed his mind about wanting to have the three cousins rampaging around his cottage he had only to say so. No excuses were needed. Henry had supported Tom too eagerly. What was going on there?

And then there was Granny. It was understandable that Granny herself refused to entertain any discussion of her health, but why was everyone else collaborating so completely in this silence?

The problem was that she was no longer a part of the Downton universe. Of course she was related to it, but she had moved away and into a different sphere. All the issues remained as they had always been, but she was no longer privy to the intimate details that were absorbed by a social osmosis when one lived in the same house. If she did not ask blunt questions, then she would never get any of the answers.

She glanced, slightly vexed, at the dressing room door. Bertie was taking an interminably long time to change. Edith dismissed her maid and scrambled under the covers. The nights were cooler now in mid-September, although she could not help but think that they were milder in Yorkshire than Northumberland and that the more modern Abbey was cozier than the sprawling ancient edifice that was Brancaster Castle.

At length Bertie emerged from the other room. Just the sight of him, even in his commonplace old dressing gown - he had refused to discard it just because he was now Marquis of Hexham - sent a quiver of desire up her spine. Sometimes she recalled that she had loved a number of men in her lifetime - Patrick, Anthony, Michael, and Bertie - but the first two paled before the loves of her mature years and though Michael was, arguably, her first _real_ love, she could not now envisage a life that did not include Bertie, her first _husband_.

She was about to issue a tender invitation but the expression on his face, indeed his whole bearing, gave her pause. Unlike the Crawleys and other members of their class, Bertie had not been raised to affect dispassion at every turn. He could be reserved, to be sure, but when he felt something, it radiated from him. Edith revered this about him. She had never been wholly comfortable with the stiff upper lip approach and had not always adhered to it herself. Seeing consternation in his face now, she reached out to him.

"My darling, what is it?"

He came to the bed, but did not climb in beside her. Instead he sat down heavily, his back toward her, his shoulders slumped.

"Bertie! What is it?" Edith threw back the bedclothes and went round his side of the bed. Only then did she notice that he held some pages in his hand, a letter perhaps.

"What's that?"

He flicked his hand and the papers - there were three pages - fluttered. "There was a letter on my night stand in the dressing room," he said dully.

This was bewildering in itself. "But who would be writing to you here? And the post was sorted hours ago."

He shook his head. "It's from one of the staff," he said. "The assistant cook." He glanced at the topmost page. "Daisy Mason."

"What?" Edith did not think she could be more astonished. "What could Daisy want with you?" She was already preparing a rebuke in her mind. The junior staff had no business communicating directly with the family.

"She gave me something. For you." But though he held up the pages, he did not hand them to her.

"What is it?" Edith asked again, but she was less interested for the moment in the letter itself, for she had no foreboding as to its contents, than she was in Bertie's demeanor. He looked perturbed, confused, ... upset. She reached out to him, but he looked away.

"Bertie." They did not fuss, she and Bertie. His behaviour thus alarmed her.

And then he did look at her and Edith almost stepped back. She did not like what she saw in his eyes, the wounded reproach. She had seen such a look only once before, on that awful day when Mary had told him about Marigold. But there was nothing of that sort between them now.

"Bertie!" she said again, more stridently, her voice rising a notch.

Edith had changed very much over the past few years. The trials of her love life and her emergence as a woman of business and a figure on the London literary scene had re-made her in ways she readily embraced. She was more confident now, more convinced of her own worth. Bertie's steadfast love had helped this new Edith to flourish. But she could not leave everything behind - no one could - and the scars of her past lingered on, not far beneath the surface. And in moments of crisis or anguish they came to the fore only too easily. So it was that in the space of less than a minute Edith went from casual lover to anxious spouse, her wide eyes glistening, her whole frame in tension. She clutched at his arm.

"What is it?" she demanded yet again.

"You never told me about the Drewes," he said.

It was the last thing she had expected to hear from him. "What?"

"The Drewes," he said, his voice tight.

"Yes, I did," her voice faltering in confusion.

"You told me that Marigold was fostered by a local family," he conceded. "The Drewes. Who cared for her until you were prepared to bring her to Downton. Yes, you told me that." There was an alarming brittleness in his words. "But you didn't tell me everything."

It was hard to concentrate. What would Daisy, the assistant cook or whatever she was, know about the Drewes? And why would she tell Bertie? But through this fog of inexplicable detail, Edith reached for the most accusing of his words - _everything_. Her breath caught.

"You didn't tell me that she was to them a child they had adopted as their own. You didn't tell me how taking her away again affected them, how it broke Mrs. Drewe's heart. Nor did you mention that they were obliged to give up tenancy at Yew Tree Farm because of this."

As distressed as she was at Bertie's mood and his accusatory tone, his reference to Mrs. Drewe and her _broken heart_ re-directed Edith's emotional response. _Mrs. Drewe_. She reviled the woman. "She was a stupid woman!" Edith spat. She'd not had to think of Mrs. Drewe in a while, but the venom engendered by their acquaintance and the turmoil of their last encounter were easily resurrected. "I needed to see Marigold, have a place in her life, and Mrs. Drewe made it very difficult for me. Almost impossible, actually," she said savagely. "She was jealous and resentful. And I couldn't live with it - or without Marigold - any longer."

"Do you blame the woman?" Bertie demanded bluntly.

"Why are we talking about this?" Edith cried, angry that Bertie was giving any attention at all to Mrs. Drewe and getting angrier that he would presume to comment on such a matter.

He held up the pages. "She wrote a letter about what happened with Marigold and left it hidden at Yew Tree Farm. Daisy lives there now. She found it."

"Daisy!" There was another target for Edith's wrath. "What is she doing giving it to you? The interfering little witch! How dare she!"

"Edith!" Bertie was scowling and now he got to his feet, too. "Yes, she gave it to me. But only because she thought you should have it, that it was really written to you." He exhaled deeply in a visible effort to curb his own excess of emotions. "And I think she's right. And I will give it to you. If only you'll promise to read it through."

But Edith would have none of this. Mrs. Drewe had driven her to distraction for almost two years when all she'd wanted was to be close to her own child. If the foolish woman had only accepted her attentions to Marigold in gratitude instead of suspicion, there would have been no trouble. This was only what Edith had intended in the first place. That the arrangement had become increasingly untenable Edith put down entirely to Mrs. Drewe's selfishness, rather than to her own growing need to have Marigold more fully in her life, especially after learning of Michael's death.

"I will not," she said hotly, her eyes flashing. She could feel her cheeks flushing with rage. "I will _not_ indulge that woman's hysteria. She tried to kidnap Marigold, you know. At the Thirsk stock show. Lured her away and ran off home with her. I was beside myself! And I'll have words with Daisy, too, for dragging this up..."

"I should hope not" Bertie said sharply. "She's only the messenger. And I believe she did the right thing in giving the letter to me to give to you. Please, Edith. Read it."

"No."

They stood in silence, staring at each other. Finally Bertie looked away. He folded the pages and put them in the pocket of his dressing gown, which he then took off and folded carefully over a nearby chair. "I trust that you will not take this away. The note from Daisy is addressed to me and the letter itself has been entrusted to my care. I hope I don't have to worry that you will destroy it."

"I don't want to touch it!" Edith snapped.

He shrugged. Then he got into bed, turning onto his side, and staring across the room.

Now the hot tears that had been pressing on her spilled over Edith's cheeks. It was an irritating response to conflict that had once been her only defense against Mary's taunts and always a poor defense at that, but she had never mastered it.

She stalked around her side of the bed and sat down hard upon the edge, balancing there for a moment. This was supposed to have been an enjoyable _family_ excursion away from Brancaster _and_ an occasion of joy given their announcement regarding Marigold's adoption. But now it had been blasted away by that _horrid_ woman who was long gone but still had such power to disrupt Edith's life. Her and that other stupid one, Daisy. _She'd_ read the letter, Daisy had, and probably communicated its contents to all of Downton now, _now_ at the moment when the scar of that transgression had been effaced by the adoption.

Edith glanced over her shoulder at Bertie's hunched form. And he was cold toward her. Well, she could address that at least.

She stood up and walked round the bed again, determined not to speak to his back nor to court the possibility that he might not turn round if she asked him to do so.

"Why are you treating me like this?" she demanded, as irritated as she was hurt. "What does it matter to you whether I read this ... this letter or not?"

With a sigh, he threw back the bedcovers and sat up again. "Because it's something we need to discuss, Edith, and we can't talk about it until you've read it."

Bertie was seldom unyielding and perhaps it was this more than anything else that shifted Edith. She held out a hand, though her chest was heaving with aggravation and the anguish of betrayal. "Give it to me then."

He hesitated only for a few seconds and then fished it out.

Edith took the pages from him and went to sit at the desk across the room where she put on the light, all the better to see the poisoned script. Mrs. Drewe's words did not improve her temper, but she struggled through them. Doing difficult things was nothing new for Edith. As she read them, her tears dried and her rage grew. When finished, she exercised an immense restraint in folding the papers and placing them carefully on the desk.

"Vile woman," she said again.

Bertie stared at her. " _Vile woman_! How can you say that?"

Edith stared right back at him, open-mouthed in disbelief. "I only wanted to see my daughter. And I was good to her. _And_ to them."

"Why couldn't you leave them be?"

"I just... _couldn't_ , Bertie! And why should I have done? The reason I brought her to Downton was so that I could see her. She might as well have stayed in Switzerland with the Schroeders otherwise."

"Who were they?" Bertie was confused.

Now Edith paused. "I told you about them. They were the people I left Marigold with in Switzerland. At first. Before I realized..." He was looking at her with renewed horror.

"You mean she was adopted there, too, and you took her away from that family as well."

"They only had her for a few months!" Edith cried. "And they adopted another baby shortly afterwards."

Bertie got up and began to pace the room. "And that makes it all right, I suppose. Why didn't you just find a substitute for the Drewes, too, and then we wouldn't be hearing from Mrs. Drewe." Edith could hear the sarcasm in his voice. " _Two_ women, _two_ families who took Marigold into their hearts and you tore her away from both of them."

Their clash over this was only escalating. Edith was aghast at her dear husband's attitude. " _Tore_! She is _my_ daughter, Bertie!"

But he was not sympathetic and now he turned toward her, his face like flint. "You gave birth to her, yes. But they took her into their home and their hearts, Edith. The Drewes had her for almost two years!" Bertie was ordinarily not given to such heated conversation, but he, too, was breathing almost in gasps and seemed distraught. "And it was the news of Michael's death that prompted you to... _repossess_...her?"

" _Repossess!"_ The word cut Edith deeply. "She is _my_ daughter, Bertie. _Mine!"_ Why did she have to keep reiterating that? "And yes, once I knew that Michael was dead I had to have Marigold with me. Is that so wrong?" She did not think it was but clearly he had other views.

"And that's how you did it?" He gestured at the hateful letter.

Edith made a dismissive movement with her hand. "She exaggerates. She made it as difficult as possible."

"Is there an easy way to do something like that?"

"Why are you taking her part!" Edith was shocked that Bertie seemed sympathetic to Mrs. Drewe's position and even more so at his lack of solidarity. Was she not his wife?!

But Bertie found her views as bewildering. "Wouldn't anyone?"

Edith had no framework for comprehending this demand. Her _family_ had closed ranks about her, with Mama offering the only words of consideration for the farmer's wife, and even she had not raised the matter again. "It was her husband's fault," Edith snapped. "He should have told her, made the circumstances clear. It was his idea to deceive her." This was true literally, but not wholly within the spirit of the compact. Tim Drewe had anticipated Edith's plea for confidentiality.

"You're blaming _him_?"

Edith looked away.

"And then they were driven from Yew Tree Farm."

"Not _driven_. But they obviously couldn't stay there. Not after she had kidnapped Marigold from the stock show. Bertie, she was deranged. It would have happened again. Moving was Mr. Drewe's idea," she added.

But Bertie was not persuaded of this.

They stood apart, staring at each other, both sickened and hurt by the exchange.

"What now?" Edith demanded. There was fire in her eyes. She loved Bertie dearly, but her love for Marigold was primal.

Bertie had no answers.

"What was it that needs discussing, then?" Edith persisted. "Or did you just want to know the details?"

He was watching her carefully, looking for ... what? "Do you feel no remorse, then, about Mrs. Drewe?"

Edith could have spat at the name. "Why should I?" she demanded, and then wondered why _she_ was on the defensive. "And why do you care?"

He met her inflamed gaze with a resolve of his own. "Because I love Marigold, too, Edith," he said. "She is the child of another, and yet I have taken her into my heart as though she were my own. As Mrs. Drewe and the Swiss family did. And I can imagine... I can _feel_ the pain and grief were she to be taken from me as she was taken from them. And yet you have only contempt for this woman who loved your child."

"There was no other way," Edith insisted. "I needed Marigold. And Mrs. Drewe would have been a constant danger and disruption."

"I daresay Mrs. Drewe thought much the same about you," he said bitterly. And then he straightened and seemed to make up his mind about something. "Excuse me," he said peremptorily. And he turned and disappeared into his dressing room.

Angry, distressed, perplexed, Edith followed him to the door and found him grabbing his clothes. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting dressed," he said. "And then I'm going... I don't know where I'm going. But I'm not staying here."

"You're leaving Downton? In the middle of the night! Because of Mrs. Drewe?!"

Bertie drew himself up formally at her words and met her gaze forthrightly. "Let's be clear about this, Edith. It isn't about Mrs. Drew. It's about you and me and Marigold."

She was stunned. She watched in silence as he dressed. Buttoning up his shirt, he glanced over at her. "Quinn can pack my things tomorrow." He paused by her side. "I'm going back to Brancaster. I've an estate to run, as your father reminded me." He spoke quietly but there was a quiver in his voice. "I'll see you there whenever you and Marigold return."

And then he left.

 ***A/N1.** When I named the character Daniel Ryder, I was thinking only of a name that I really liked. I had forgotten that the consultant Anna saw in London was also named Ryder. This is wholly accidental and the two characters have nothing to do with each other.


	26. Chapter 26

**EPISODE 6.**

 **Chapter 5**

 **The Uncomfortable Breakfast**

There was some awkwardness at the breakfast table on Sunday morning. Edith made excuses for Bertie but she was so out of sorts that no one could believe there had not been some unpleasantness between the Pelhams, whatever the actual cause of Bertie's midnight flight.

"They've fallen out," Henry murmured to Mary. On his part this was merely an observation for he had fairly neutral feelings towards Edith and Bertie.

Mary raised her eyebrows a little. "It's very interesting. It seems that Bertie may be deeper than I thought." She saw the half-amused look of reproof in Henry's face and gave him a quick smile. Then, though she'd resigned herself to the fact, as she'd admitted to Anna the day before, that she and Edith would never be friends, Mary threw herself into the task of defusing the tension. She made no remarks about or allusions to Bertie and instead gave forth with an effusion of the kind of effortless and meaningless conversation that she had perfected on the dance floors of London during the Season. She even went so far as to declare that she was looking forward to Mr. Travis's sermon, though she had always found them interminable and pointless.

On any other day Edith would have called Mary out on such a blatant untruth, but this morning she was too preoccupied to listen, though at some level she appreciated the buzz of her sister's voice as a distraction for the others. Edith ate little and begged off early with the excuse that she had to see that Marigold was properly dressed for the church service. The others watched in silence as she left.

"I wonder what that's about," Cora said, as soon as Lewis had closed the door behind Edith.

"Why are you still bothering to try to understand her?" was Mary's immediate retort. When her father gave her a sharp look, she stared right back at him. "I promised to be pleasant _to_ Edith, Papa. I didn't vow to abstain in _all_ circumstances."

A growl of resignation escaped from Robert, but he averted his eyes, choosing not to fight that battle today. Instead he turned to Cora. "I hope it wasn't something I said."

Cora's eyes went round with consternation. "What _did_ you say?"

"Only that Bertie was the Marquis of Hexham now and that he must get on with it and there was no good moaning about it all."

"Hear, hear," Mary said, echoing her father's sentiments more forcefully. She had no patience with people grumbling about their lives, especially marquises who got to live at Brancaster Castle.

Cora was less impressed with this argument. "Robert!" She was exasperated with him, but her dismay was tempered. They had made up after the fuss between them over the American Ambassador. Robert had conceded that Cora had the right to her own views on the subject and Cora had allowed that Robert was astute enough to recognize anti-semitism when he saw it and to deal with it appropriately. This truce had restored good humour between them and Cora did not want to disrupt it again.

Robert was as aware of the recent unpleasantness between them as she was and as anxious to avoid further aggravation. "But it is so, my darling," he said gently. "Bertie must accept his destiny." His gaze strayed to his eldest daughter. "Mary would have made a good Marquis of Hexham," he mused, with a smile.

"Thank you, Papa. I would have done," Mary agreed promptly. "Imagine having an estate like that and _not_ being interested in it!" The possibility bewildered her.

Henry only laughed. In many ways he did not know Mary nearly as well as her family did, but he could easily see how the prospect of having Brancaster under her stewardship would appeal to his wife.

Mary, for her part, was gratified by his reaction. He had not drawn the conversation back to himself with some inane comment about being glad she was a woman rather that a potential marquis. Richard Carlisle had once done so in much more trivial circumstances and it had irked her.

Cora put her napkin on the table and made to get up. Barrow hurried to hold her chair for her. "I'm going to talk to Edith," she said. Her husband and daughter were only too willing to look the other way in the face of emotional upset and she had learned to affect a blind eye in many circumstances herself. But Edith _was_ distressed and her mother could comfort her at the very least.

Mary's gaze fell on Barrow and her mind turned to other matters. She caught her father's eye and stared pointedly at him for a moment and then glanced briefly in the butler's direction. Robert frowned, puzzled, and then understanding dawned.

"It's your plan," Robert said, picking up _The Times_. "You tell him."

Mary smiled and then her eyes sought out the butler once more. "Barrow."

He had already returned to his post at the sideboard where he stood unobtrusively but always watchful, a more youthful shade of Carson. At her summons, he moved smoothly to her side. "My lady."

"I've ... _we've_ a favour to ask of you, Barrow, a request we have no right to ask, but I hope you will consider. You must feel free to decline if it is not convenient."

Barrow inclined his head in acknowledgment of her words and waited for her to continue.

Mary tilted her head slightly towards her husband.

"It's my request, really," Henry said. "I'm taking a business trip to the continent and need a valet. I understand you have served in that capacity before for Lord Grantham. I'm hoping you might agree to accompany me as my valet for four days in early October."

The servants of a great English house, no less than their masters, were often skilled in maintaining an impassive countenance in the face of any unexpected development. Barrow was more adept than many at this and so the expression on his face remained neutral. It was an odd request to make of the butler of the house. No one - even Lady Mary - would have made it of Mr. Carson. But then he had never served as a valet.* Still it _was_ asking much of a butler to step away from his privileged position even for a moment. Yet Thomas hesitated to decline. Out of the corner of his eye he could see His Lordship was only staring at the newspaper before him, not reading it, as though waiting for Barrow's reply. Mr. Talbot might look at him with an earnest look on his face, but Lady Mary had an almost mischievous air about her. There was something unsaid in this invitation. Barrow could only wonder what it might be, but doing so led him to hesitate in his rejection.

"It's only that the Germans are so very correct about these things," Mary said, almost indifferently, though her gaze did not waver from Barrow.

"The ... Germans, my lady?" This detail caught his ear.

"Yes," Mary said, without the trace of a smile. "Mr. Talbot must go to Berlin. On business. Have you ever been there?"

Barrow heard the words as though through some distorting fog. It took a few seconds for their meaning to sink in. "Berlin. No. I have not." His mind was awhirl. _Berlin_!

"I realize even to ask is an imposition, Barrow," Henry said in that off-hand way he had.

"But His Lordship won't part with Bates..." At the end of the table, Robert made a sound that might have been _Ha_!, but Mary ignored him. "And there's no one else suitable among the male staff."

Though it was a struggle to contain himself - _Berlin!_ \- and even though he suspected that Lady Mary knew more of what she was offering than the plain request suggested, automatically Barrow's gaze shifted to His Lordship. His butler could hardly accept such an offer without His Lordship's permission.

"Lady Mary has _plans_ ," Robert said, in answer to Barrow's unspoken question. He rattled his paper and went back to it, actually reading this time.

"If you're worried about how the house will function in your absence..." Lady Mary began.

"I am, my lady."

"I thought perhaps of asking Carson to look in and managing with just the footmen while you're gone. It's only four days."

Neither prospect was wholly welcome to Barrow. No one had challenged his assumption of the role of butler at Downton Abbey, but neither did he feel completely secure in the position. Having Mr. Carson _look in_ struck him almost as a mid-term review of his work. And he was beginning to think that Lewis's perfection was a manifestation of ambition which might see an opportunity in the butler's absence. But ... _Berlin!_ It was too tempting to turn down, no matter that accepting might amuse Lady Mary, annoy His Lordship, encourage Lewis, and disturb Mr. Carson. But he could not - and would not - overtly display his enthusiasm, no matter how excited he was about the journey. And he was excited!

"If His Lordship approves," Barrow said calmly, with a glance at the head of the table.

"I'm glad someone cares what I think." There was such an air of resignation in His Lordship's voice, though his eyes rested on his daughter as he spoke. "Oh, go on."

"Then ... I would be pleased to act in that capacity for you, Mr. Talbot." Barrow's tone gave away nothing of the exhilaration that was consuming him. _Berlin!_ And _Erich_!

"Thank you," Henry said.

"Yes, thank you, Barrow," Mary added. "We appreciate your cooperation." She and Barrow stared at each other for a moment. Then he nodded and stepped back from the table.

"Well, we're done here," Mary declared, standing up.

Henry languidly tossed his napkin on the table and stood as well. "My darling," he said, holding an arm out to his wife. She took it and they made their way to the Great Hall. With the door closed behind them, Henry turned to his wife with a knowing smile.

"You enjoyed that," he said.

"Of course, I did."

"But ... why?"

Mary gave him an innocent look. "Is it not a good thing to keep the people in one's employ happy?"

He laughed. "Possibly, but I doubt that either your grandmother or mine would have gone to such lengths."

"Possibly not," Mary admitted, "but," she added, with a meaningful glance over her shoulder at the dining room door, "it never hurts to have Barrow in one's debt."

 **Cora and Edith**

"Edith?"

Cora had thought she would find her daughter in the nursery making adjustments to Marigold's Sunday best, but Edith was instead standing distractedly on the landing as though she had forgotten where she was going.

"Mama!" Startled, Edith flashed her mother a ghost of a smile and then her gaze became unfocused once more.

"Oh, my darling." Cora enveloped Edith in a comforting embrace. "What is it, Edith?"

Edith allowed herself to be held. "I don't want to talk about it," she said with a sniffle. She'd found breakfast excruciating even as she acknowledged to herself that Mary had done an admirable job of deflection. In another life, she might have suspected an ulterior motive, for Mary had always had an eagle eye for Edith's most vulnerable moments.

Cora sighed. "I won't ask what's come between you and Bertie, then," she said, alluding to the obvious. "But will you permit me to say, on the basis of my long experience with marriage, that it _will_ blow over? No matter how bad it seems in the moment, Edith, it _will_ pass."

"That's what you said when Anthony Strallan left me at the altar," Edith grumbled, without lifting her head from her mother's shoulder.

This remark almost drew a sigh of exasperation from Cora. Trust Edith to feel obliged to compound a present conflict of the heart with another painful one from the past. "Is it that bad?" she asked instead.

"Worse." Edith did straighten up now, though she did not withdraw her hands from her mother's. "Because it's _Bertie_. And I really love him."

"And he loves you," Cora said firmly. "So ...," she ventured cautiously, "it wasn't anything your father said to Bertie."

This elicited a slightly pained look from her daughter. "No, Mama. It wasn't anything Papa said. Although I don't know what he was thinking, pressing Bertie as he did."

"Papa loves you, too, Edith."

"Oh, I know. And I appreciate your support, Mama. It's just ..." But Edith could not say what it just was. "I must see to Marigold." And she turned and marched up the stairs.

Staring after her, Cora could only shake her head. She had begun to believe that Edith's life had really turned a corner and she still thought that was the case. But an episode like this did give her to doubt.

 **Edith and Granny**

Edith had made the plans to visit her grandmother on Friday night in what now seemed like another world where all was right between her and Bertie and where Granny's health was her main concern. All had gone topsy turvy since then, but Edith was determined to ask the difficult questions that no one else seemed willing to raise.

"I tried," Mary had told her earnestly when they'd discussed the matter on Saturday morning, "but she kept turning my questions back on me and I concluded that if she could put that much energy into thwarting me, then she wasn't on the brink yet."

There was something to be said for that, but Edith had wanted to make her own attempt with Granny. It was supposed to have been a congenial visit, just the two of them enjoying each other's company as they often did, with a little investigative journalism thrown in.

But now Edith could hardly think straight. She was less concerned about this impairment of her faculties than irritated by the distraction. She would have postponed the conversation but for the fact that she didn't know when she would next be at Downton and Granny's situation really couldn't wait.

Spratt, with whom Edith exchanged only a perfunctory greeting, showed her into her grandmother's sitting room. Though they had seen each other the day before, Edith crossed the floor to embrace and kiss the older woman. Such expressions of warmth had always been part of their relationship. But it had its hazards, for touch was - if anything - a more effective conduit of an emotional state than was sight, and far more difficult to deceive.

"Oh, dear," Granny said, as Edith pulled back from her. With that almost unerring capacity for discernment that regularly alarmed all her relations, she demanded, "What is wrong?"

Edith sighed, both exasperated and resigned. "Bertie and I have fallen out," she said bluntly. Perhaps it would be well to get this out of the way. She could not deny her own preoccupation. "We had a row last night and he left."

Granny looked astonished. "What? In the middle of the night?"

Edith walked to the window and looked out, unseeing. Granny could only be herself and intellectually Edith understood that, but she did wish that her grandmother might occasionally _think_ before asking such pointed and unnecessary questions. Once asked, however, all that could be done was to answer them.

"I expect he had Pratt drive him into York in time to catch the late train. He left the car for me."

There was a flicker of irritated dismay on Granny's face. That the Marquis of Hexham drove himself about was not something the Dowager Lady Grantham thought proper. Having servants to attend to the mundane and functional aspects of life was one of the marks of the aristocracy. But that was a battle Edith had won against her grandmother. She had been driving for a good ten years and was proud of the fact. It was her single achievement that seemed to have impressed Mary as well. And it meant that Bertie's fit of temper had not left her stranded helplessly on her parents' doorstep.

"Whatever brought that on?"

It was to inquire after her grandmother's health, not to recount her own woes, that Edith had come to the Dower house. And there were those who might have hesitated to burden a frail old woman with such a tale. But Edith knew that Granny would have the story out of her one way or another. Better to forego resistance altogether and get it over with. So Edith told her.

Granny listened keenly, even leaning forward a little in her chair, as though to ensure that she caught every word. She did not interrupt. It was her habit to get the whole story before commenting.

"You don't look shocked," Edith observed, seeking some kind of sign. "Or surprised."

"About what?" Granny responded abruptly. "That Mrs. Drewe should feel aggrieved? That Bertie should be shaken by the details? That facing this again has made you very angry? It's all very predictable, my dear."

"It's _infuriating_ is what it is," Edith said grimly. She stalked across the room and then turned and retraced her steps to the window. It was impossible to remain physically quiet when she was so emotionally stirred. "That foul woman. Why can't she just leave me alone?"

"It appears that Mrs. Drewe thought much the same about you and with some justification."

Edith whirled on her, her face darkening with indignation, but before she could utter a word, Granny was speaking again and in a tone that brooked no interruption.

"You did what you had to do for yourself as a mother and for your child as you saw fit," she said firmly. "It was ugly. These things are by nature messy. Now you must go forward." There was a note of authority in Granny's words.

"But Bertie..."

"Bertie will reconcile," Granny intoned with a gravity that suggested that if Bertie did not do so of his own accord, she would see that he did. "I'm far more concerned about you."

" _I'm_ not the problem," Edith persisted. "The problem is ... that _woman_. If only she would just go away." She stopped pacing and stood very still, her arms wrapped about herself. Although she always hoped that her grandmother would throw her formidable moral weight into the balance on Edith's side, Granny's support was never a simple thing.

"There is no wishing away a problem, my dear. Maturity requires that we confront our mistakes and set things right as best we can."

Edith flared again. "Mistakes! The only _mistakes_ I made were to trust Marigold to the Drewes to begin with and in not taking charge of my life sooner!"

Her grandmother's brow arched sceptically at these words and Edith knew why. She was as aware as her grandmother that this whole episode in her life had begun with that unforgettable and much-cherished night of passion she had shared with Michael Gregson. In the several trying months that followed, when she had confronted both his mysterious disappearance and the reality of her pregnancy, Edith had sometimes lapsed into a melancholy that led her to believe her tryst with Michael had been a mistake. Then she had given birth and everything had changed. No one could look into the face of a newborn child and see a _mistake_. Since that time, the only errors Edith acknowledged were those she had made in response to the pressures of society and of her family to put Marigold away from her - in Switzerland, with the Drewes, and that last alarming but not implemented suggestion by Aunt Rosamund to place her in a school in France.

"Set things right!," she added acidly. "I'm not giving her back, Granny!"

"Of course not," Granny scoffed.

Given her grandmother's attitude thus far, Edith had almost been expecting a fight on this and such a sudden affirmation took her breath away for an instant.

"Marigold is your daughter and she is - now - secure in her rightful place with you. But you must come to terms wit the repercussions of your actions, Edith, if you are ever to have peace. Your indecision over Marigold caused grief, tremendous grief, to Mrs. Drewe, as this letter you read indicates. She was Marigold's mother for some time. And once you've loved a child, there is no going back."

But Edith was not swayed. "Well, she'll have to get past it," she said coolly. "Because there is nothing to be done about it."

"Oh, there's always something," Granny said flatly. "Give it some thought. When you can honestly face the implications of your actions for Mrs. Drewe, and perhaps for her husband - though I've less sympathy there, the man ought never to have made such a pact - something may come to you."

"Why should I do anything?" There was more than a trace of petulance in her voice and Edith was irked at herself for this. The sentiment expressed, however, was an honest one. She met Granny's gaze almost defiantly and was a little discomfited to see in those aged eyes something unfamiliar. Was it ... hurt? Sorrow? Regret? Edith's own feelings were momentarily derailed. Was Granny so distressed for Edith herself, or was there something else?

But whatever it was that had passed through Granny's mind, she recovered herself quickly and the self-assured woman Edith had always known re-emerged. "Leave it now, Edith. You are naturally overwrought - the issue itself, Bertie's reaction, your own sense of injustice that others have not rallied unthinkingly to your side. You need time to think about it all quietly. And, while I do not agree with your husband's actions - no personal matter should _ever_ manifest itself in a way that is apparent to others, even to family - putting a little distance between you in a fraught moment is a viable strategy. That is why dressing rooms and large castles were built!" She giggled at her own humorous aside.

It was not a prescription that Edith would have accepted from anyone else, but in this moment she yielded to her grandmother, at least in part because of that discomfiting glimpse into Granny's inner world.

"Let us have our tea and discuss more pleasant things," Granny said with a sudden vigour, ringing the bell for Spratt. "Sit down and tell me how you are negotiating married life with your mother-in-law in an apartment within Brancaster Castle." Granny said this as though she anticipated that such an arrangement might be a challenge, which was, it occurred to Edith, a bit rich on her part, as Granny had insisted that her own son and his wife reside at Downton when that couple was first married.

The subject of Bertie's mother was neither what Edith want to talk about nor a subject she considered 'pleasant,' but it was a topic that could be mulled over in front of Spratt. So until he had set out the tea and ensured that all was well with them, she went along with it.

But when the butler had departed and Edith, somewhat calmed by the trivial conversation, could focus on other matters, her mind returned to the reason she had arranged this visit with Granny in the first instance. And while she could sometimes still be cowed into submission by her formidable grandmother, Granny's guarded response to the latest Drewe crisis only encouraged Edith to be bold in her own agenda.

"How are you, Granny?" she asked, a soon as Spratt had closed the door.

"Not much changed since last evening," Granny replied, a deft deflection.

Edith fixed her with an unforgiving eye. "I mean it, Granny. Tell me the truth."

But her grandmother only smiled disarmingly. "That is the truth, my dear."

Edith had a dogged streak in her character. It had often irritated others and gotten her into trouble. She remembered - as she remembered all slights and reprimands - once interrogating Mary on why she had taken the Duke of Crowborough on a tour of the Downton attics, earning a rebuke from Mary, a look of disapproval from Papa, and a lecture after the fact from Mama about avoiding sensitive subjects at the dinner table. And anywhere else.

But her tenacity had proved a worthwhile trait once she found an application for it beyond needling Mary. In the professional world of publishing that she now inhabited, it was reckoned a virtue. She would not take it to an extreme in the same way Sir Richard Carlisle might have done, but she had nonetheless built herself something of a reputation for persisting in her goals.

Now she continued to stare at her grandmother. "I don't want to become vexed with you, Granny, but it is quite important to me that you respond frankly."

"My dear," Granny said mildly, "there is nothing to say."

This was the stalemate Mary had described and which had defeated her. Edith sat very still for a moment and then leaned forward to take her grandmother's hand.

"If you won't be frank, I shall be," she said in a voice of quiet authority, though she spoke with kindliness, too. "I've noticed how you've changed the last few times I've been to Downton and I'm worried about you. I'm not here every day like Papa and Mama and Mary. I can't afford to play cat-and-mouse with you about this. If there's something wrong, I need to know. Now."

 ***Author's Note.** It might be argued that Carson served, however unwillingly, as a valet on occasion during the war when Robert was between valets. And though it is not supported in canon, my own backstory for Carson involves him having served in every male role in the house, including a ten-month stint as valet to the Viscount Grantham prior to Robert's marriage. But Barrow may not be aware of either of these instances.

 **Gratitude:** Thanks to imnotokaywiththerunning. I think you may have gotten me started again.


	27. Chapter 27

**EPISODE 6.**

 **Chapter 6**

 **Monday September 20, 1926**

 **Monday Morning in the Servants' Hall**

The butler of Downton Abbey was in a very good mood on Monday morning and everyone downstairs knew it. And was puzzled. Good humour was not something that any of them usually associated with Thomas Barrow.

"It's very strange," Mrs. Patmore muttered, as she and Daisy retreated to the kitchen to collect the additional breakfast platters.

"It's allowed, isn't it?" Daisy said, almost belligerently. "It were Mr. Carson who frowned on smiling in the morning and he's gone."

"It was high spirits he objected to, not smiling," Mrs. Patmore corrected her, deciding to ignore Daisy's tone and the lack of respect in her reference to the former butler. "And no, there's no law against it. But it's not Mr. Barrow's way to be cheerful - really cheerful, that is."

It was a full table that morning, with Mrs. Carson making one of her semi-regular appearances for breakfast and the Bateses in attendance, too. The anomaly of Mr. Barrow's mood was a distraction for Mr. Bates, who couldn't keep his attention on what his wife was saying to him.

"I give up," Mr. Bates said finally. "Mr. Barrow, what's come over you?" The valet would never have posed such a question of Mr. Carson. The relationship between those two men had always been a formal one. But a mutual and long-standing antagonism, as well as years spent at service levels that were not widely separated, allowed for a level of familiarity, and Barrow's promotion to the post of butler had not affected this.

Mr. Barrow turned to the valet with a pleasant countenance. "It's a sunny day," he said airily and with an enigmatic smile.

This only made Bates puzzle all the more. "We're all going to be sacked - all but you. Is that it?" He was joking, but such a development would hardly have been less astonishing than was this revolution in temperament on the butler's part.

"You have such a good sense of humour, Mr. Bates," Barrow responded, without a discernible trace of sarcasm. "I wonder that I've not noticed it before."

This raised eyebrows all around and left Bates himself more flummoxed than ever, a situation in which he had seldom found himself.

"So _I'm_ to be sacked, then," he ventured. "Is that it?"

Mr. Barrow only laughed at this as a witticism and then politely asked Mrs. Carson to pass him the jam. She did so with enthusiasm.

"Mr. Barrow can enjoy a day like anyone else," the housekeeper said, in a genial effort to quell the direction of this conversation. "And I for one am happy to see him in such good spirits."

"Oh, so am I," Bates agreed. "A change is always refreshing."

But Mr. Barrow did not rise to the bait.

In a further attempt to re-focus conversation, Mrs. Carson turned to Daniel Rider who sat beside her. "So you're off to the Dowager's again this afternoon?"

It had escaped the notice of all except the ever-perceptive Messrs. Barrow and Bates that Mrs. Carson often engaged Daniel Rider in conversation at the table and that there always seemed just a little more to it than politeness and the fact that they were seated together.

"We are," Rider replied congenially. "I'm reading in the library this morning while Mr. Carson walks with His Lordship. But we're to meet at the Dower house after lunch."

"And you've not gotten bored with it all yet?"

"No," Rider said carefully. "The Dowager Lady Grantham is a fascinating woman. I've enjoyed hearing her stories." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Barrow, who was clearly listening to this conversation, smile faintly and shake his head almost imperceptibly.

"But the Granthams' history can hardly compare to the material you read at Cambridge," the housekeeper persisted. "It's such a small story."

"Not all of the 'great' works of history are riveting, believe me," Rider said with feeling. "There's almost nothing as turgid as _The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire_ , in six lengthy volumes. Small stories can be interesting, too, especially in the hands of such capable storytellers as the Dowager Countess and Mr. Carson." Though he responded politely to Mrs. Carson, Rider shot a perturbed look at the butler, who was still shaking his head as if in disbelief.

"Cambridge." This interjection from Mr. Bates drew the attention of the senior servants. "I've just been reading about an annual footrace there," he said.

"The Great Court Run at Trinity College," Rider said promptly. "It's run on Matriculation Day, usually early October."

"I've heard of that," murmured Mr. Barrow, looking interested. Neither Barrow nor Bates had much awareness of affairs at the great universities, but they were both avid readers of the sports pages. It was the only thing they had in common, apart from their place of work.

"Did you attempt it?" Bates asked Rider, an eager curiosity in his voice.

Rider nodded. "I did. Failed, of course. Everyone does." *****

"What is it?" Andy also enjoyed the sports pages, but his interests were more narrowly focused on cricket and rugby.

"There's a gravel path that traces the square of Trinity College," Rider explained. "Measured end to end it is 401 yards in length. Every year, Cambridge athletes try to run the square in the time it takes the college bells to toll the noon hour." As he related this, the whole room, including Mrs. Patmore and Daisy, stopped to listen.

"That's not very long," Daisy said, thinking of the Downton church bells' noon peal.

"It's not," Rider agreed heartily. "Something like forty-four seconds."

Lewis, who rarely joined in the conversation at breakfast, but who like the other men assiduously studied the sports news, shook his head. "It can't be done."

"What was your time, Mr. Rider?" Anna asked.

He smiled, but shook his head. "I won't own to it, Mrs. Bates. In the matter of the Great Court Run one either succeeds or fails."

"You were an athlete then, up at Cambridge," Bates surmised. His words were innocuous enough but drew a glance from Anna. No one at Downton, including Anna, had known Mr. Bates before a wartime injury had crippled him. But his own memories of a liberated youth in the full possession of his limbs and the potential to do almost anything had stayed with him and Anna knew he sometimes yearned for those days. She had noticed his wistfulness in this regard more frequently of late when he was watching Robbie.

"I was," Rider said, responding to Mr. Bates. "Though I never aspired to the Olympic heights achieved by the likes of Harold Abrahams."

The name brought murmurs of admiration from all the men at the table, including the always circumspect Lewis, but the women exchanged bemused glances.

"Mr. Abrahams took a gold medal at the 1924 Olympics for the hundred metre," Mr. Barrow informed them, wondering that the name was not emblazoned on every brain. Nineteen twenty-four had been a glorious year for Britain in the world of international sport.

"Maybe you could have done it, Mr. Barrow." Daisy's incongruous interjection drew all eyes. "That run around the yard," she went on, with a nod at Daniel Rider.

"Were you an athlete, Mr. Barrow?" Rider asked politely.

Before Barrow could respond, Daisy spoke up again. "He's a champion cricket player."

"You're a runner going way back, aren't you?" Mr. Bates said disingenuously.

Barrow's patience for needling slipped just a little with a sharp glance at the valet.

"I would have liked to race you," Daniel Rider said, viewing the butler with an appraising eye. "You can really take the measure of a man when you meet him on the playing field."

"Or the battle field," Bates murmured. Beside him, Anna squeezed his arm.

"Why don't you?"

"Daisy." Mrs. Patmore had about had enough with Daisy's enthusiastic participation in this conversation. Usually the cook and her assistant delivered the breakfast and then retired to the kitchen to eat on their own. But Daisy had lingered and lingered today. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"We don't have a courtyard at Downton," Daisy went on, unabashed. "Well, not a grand one anyway. But you could measure out a track on the gravel paths around the Abbey. And we could watch and cheer you on! It would be fun!"

"I'm not at all sure His Lordship and Her Ladyship would look upon such an amusement with favour," Mrs. Carson interceded, securing a grateful look from Mrs. Patmore who couldn't imagine what possessed Daisy this morning.

"I don't know about that," Bates said, apparently catching some of Daisy's spirit. "His Lordship enjoys sportsmanship. What do you say, Mr. Barrow?"

If Bates had expected to catch the butler out, he had picked the wrong day for it. Barrow considered for a moment, staring meditatively at Daniel Rider as he did so. "I agree with you, Mr. Bates. I think His Lordship might be persuaded."

"And you would run against me?" Daniel Rider asked, looking interested.

"Aren't you both a bit ...?" Andy began, looking from Rider to Mr. Barrow and back again.

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you, Andy, " Mrs. Carson observed perceptively.

"Don't you think it would be a little ... beneath the dignity of the house?" Mrs. Patmore asked, with diminishing hopes. "What would Mr. Carson say?"

"Mr. Carson," Mrs. Carson replied smoothly, "isn't in charge. Mr. Barrow is." She was the only one who could say that.

"Then you would be supportive of such an event?" Barrow asked her quietly.

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter what I think. It's His Lordship and Her Ladyship who will have to say yea or nay to it. But," she added with a twinkle in her eye, "I wouldn't mind seeing such a competition. I think it's up to you, Mr. Barrow."

With enthusiastic murmurings up and down the table, Barrow seemed almost buoyed up. "We can't know what His Lordship will think unless I ask him," he declared. "And if all goes well, then Mr. Rider, I would be pleased to accept your challenge. And Mr. Bates," he added, "you can be our starter."

"First week in October?" Bates asked, glancing between the two contestants and bearing in mind the date of the Great Court Run at Cambridge.

"Best make it the _second_ week," Barrow said. And with that, he got to his feet and the table followed him, dispersing to their tasks for the day with an exhilaration that had been felt on only rare occasions downstairs at Downton.

 **Tom and Henry**

Tom and Henry arrived at the shop at the same time, Tom pulling up behind his brother-in-law in the back lane where they parked their cars.

"Have things settled down since yesterday?" Tom called, getting out of his car.

Henry paused to review the situation. "Edith seems to have regained her equilibrium, so Cora let her leave this morning, though they were all shaking their heads at her driving herself."

Tom shook _his_ head at this. "She's a fine driver," he said. "No one else can even drive." Tom and Henry occasionally pondered the aristocratic privilege to which Robert and Mary still clung and that required them to have a driver. They agreed that Cora might like to learn but could not quite bring herself to take the step even of admitting to it. "Does anyone know what happened between Edith and Bertie?"

"Mary's the _least_ likely to have the inside story there," Henry said flatly. It was true.

"Edith and I have always gotten on, but she didn't want to talk to me last night," Tom mused. "I hope she's all right. Anything else I should know?"

"I've yet to make my arrangements for Berlin but at least I know that _Barrow_ will be coming with me, as valet." Henry could only stare meaningfully at Tom as he said this. Neither man were given to reflecting on the servants - Tom remained uncomfortable with the whole idea of service and did not like to remark on people with whom he had once worked, and Henry had both the aristocratic understanding of the utility of servants and the habit of doing without them. But by subtle means they had both come to realize that neither was particularly fond of Barrow.

"What's that all about, anyway?" Tom asked, as he unlocked the shop door and then led the way inside.

"It's Mary's idea," Henry replied, "and you don't really want to know the reason why."

Tom grinned. "I believe that."

They went about their work which, that morning, involved hard labour and a literal dose of elbow grease as they wrestled with an Abingdon motorcycle. This was a different sort of project for them. Hitherto they had focused exclusively on cars. But the challenge appealed to them.

"Can you see yourself bumping over the cobblestones of the High Street on this?" Tom demanded, tightening the brake gear.

" _I_ can," Henry replied emphatically, "but I doubt it would go down well with the family. We'll have to sit down sometime this week and work out precisely what we want from Reinhard Morden and his operation. And I'll need to get some paperwork together to give him a clear view of what we're doing. We didn't get to much of that when he was here."

They exchanged wry glances.

"Are we through with foreign visitors at the Abbey for a while?" Tom asked.

"Foreign _and_ domestic, I should think," Henry responded, and they both laughed at this.

Shortly before noon, Tom went to wash up. "The demands of having two jobs," he said, putting on his jacket and straightening his collar. "I've got to pick up that order for the Downton tool shop."

Henry waved him away. Though committed to the success of their own business and determined that they should have a living apart from the estate, they had easily accommodated Tom's continued association with Downton. Expecting that they would not see each other again until the following morning, Henry looked up in surprise when, not more than ten minutes later, Tom stormed back into the garage with a look of thunder on his face.

"What's wrong?"

But Tom only shook his head and grabbed the coveralls he had just discarded and a box of tools. Perplexed, Henry followed him outside. In the back lane, Henry saw immediately that the bonnet on Tom's car was folded back. Engine trouble. But there had to be more than that to have turned Tom's mood so foul.

"What is it?" Henry asked, looking over Tom's shoulder.

"Grit in the gas line," Tom said acidly, bending over the engine.

Understanding dawned on Henry almost immediately and he stared at Tom's back with some dismay. "It's your prankster, isn't it." It wasn't a question. "I wonder why he's started again." Henry paused. "If he ever stopped."

Tom went still for a moment and then straightened up to stare at his brother-in-law. "I've not told you everything."

Henry was not one for recriminations. Whatever Tom's reasons for holding back, calling him out on them now wouldn't change anything. So he just waited for Tom to continue.

Tom's shoulders slumped. "The week before Sybbie and I moved out of the Abbey, someone through a rock through my bedroom window. It was dark. I saw nothing."

Henry considered this. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Last Monday morning, in a repeat of the cow patty incident, I found a dead grouse on the seat of my car."

"A grouse!"

Tom could tell that Henry's mind was racing in the same directions his own had gone in that moment. "I know. It had to have come from our shoot the day before."

"So it could be anyone in the village."

"Or anyone who was in the village that weekend. That there was going to be a shoot for the American ambassador was common knowledge."

For a few minutes they worked in silence over the car.

"Look," Henry said finally, "you've got things to do. Take my car." He fished the key out of his pocket. "I'll clean this up. But Tom, when you come back, you've got to take this to the police."

Tom's eyes blazed.

"You _must_ ," Henry repeated. "It's gotten out of hand. It's beyond childish pranks. The rock through the window crossed a line." Perhaps he noted the telltale sign of stubbornness in Tom's out-thrust jaw. "You have to think of Sybbie, Tom," he said quietly. "That's why you called off the sleepover, isn't it?"

A heavy sigh escaped Tom. "Yes. I couldn't ... well, I wouldn't postpone our moving out of the Abbey because of the rock incident. But I just didn't feel easy about having the three children at the cottage with someone like this lurking about. I don't like being watched," he added, glancing irritably over his shoulder though there was no one about.

Henry nodded sympathetically. "I'll go with you later."

"Thanks."

 **Thomas and Daniel**

In mid-afternoon, Thomas left his desk and went out to have a smoke in the coal yard. He liked to stretch his legs and enjoy the air, but this morning he had a lot to think about, too. More than anything else his mind was abuzz with Berlin. _Berlin_! He was going to _Berlin_! He could never have imagined that such a dream could come true. Lady Mary had his number, all right, but for once he didn't mind the disadvantage.

 _Erich_. Thomas drew the smoke of his cigarette deeply into his lungs and then exhaled it in a slow stream. _And in less than three weeks!_ Though he never liked to count on something until it happened, he had written Erich a letter last night.

The thrill of it was almost enough to distract him from that curious business at breakfast that morning. A Downton equivalent to Trinity College's Great Court Run. He'd agreed to it straight away, foregoing a considered assessment of what it would involve. But now, hours later, he had no regrets. Daniel Rider puzzled him, as indeed he still did Mrs. Carson. It had occurred to Thomas peripherally last night, as he had mulled over the delights ahead of him in Berlin, that there might be a spare moment in London either coming or going to Berlin to ask some questions about Daniel Rider, to explore that clue inadvertently conveyed by Tim Grey. _Viscount Hambly._ But whatever he might make of that, the race, closer to home, was a different kind of opportunity to probe this still-mysterious outsider.

And there would be a race. Thomas had taken the opportunity to raise the matter with His Lordship as he was rising from breakfast. Monday morning was always a propitious moment to discuss potentially problematic questions with His Lordship. Anticipating his walk with Mr. Carson usually put His Lordship in good humour and an expansive frame of mind. As was the case today.

"Good golly!" His Lordship had declared. "A Great Court Run here at Downton!" His eyes had lit up at the prospect. And then took on a slightly guarded look. "I know you're a good man on the cricket pitch, Barrow, but are you up to something like this?"

It was a reasonable question. "I believe so, my lord."

"What about Carson's man, then? This ... Rider fellow. Can you beat him?"

Thomas liked the way His Lordship had framed it – _Carson's man_. His Lordship had embraced the spirit of the competition and put Rider and Mr. Carson in the camp of the _other_.

"I think I can," Thomas said. And he did.

"It might be fun," His Lordship said, with an eager smile. "Measure a route, Barrow, and let me know what you come up with. Early October, you said?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Very good. Oh, and Barrow, I'll speak with Carson this morning about ... that other business. Mr. Talbot, Germany, your going as his valet. Ask him to look in, make sure everything was running smoothly."

Thomas wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or apprehensive about this, but clearly it pleased His Lordship. So he said nothing.

"Yes. I'd rather not do without my butler at all, of course," His Lordship went on. "But there is some faint logic to Lady Mary's rationale." He did not sound so convinced. "It is good of you to agree to it, Barrow."

Somehow Thomas had managed to get away with the impression that he was doing the Crawleys a favour intact in His Lordship's mind. Lady Mary might know or suspect the truth, but there was no need for His Lordship to be in on it.

The coal yard door swung open and Thomas looked up to see Daniel Rider emerging from it. Rider often took a mid-morning break as well, but usually stood about the kitchen chatting with Mrs. Patmore who gave him a cup of coffee - not tea - and fawned all over him. _She needs a man_ , Thomas thought, and then quickly purged that disturbing notion from his head. This morning, though, it seemed that Mr. Rider might have come looking for him. This was not an unwelcome development.

"Mr. Barrow," Rider said, coming across the yard.

"Mr. Rider." Thomas offered up his pack of cigarettes, though he'd not seen Rider indulge. "Smoke?"

"No, thank you."

Of course not. "He won't like you any better for it, you know."

"I beg your pardon?"

Thomas thought Rider understood what he'd meant, but he clarified anyway. "Mr. Carson."

They looked each other over carefully for a moment.

"I gave up smoking during the war when I was in Palestine after carelessly tossing a lit butt into some dry grass. Nearly obliterated our camp. And let Fritz get our bearings exactly." But he took a cigarette and lit it expertly.

"And he won't like you at all when he finds out what you're up to," Thomas said, fishing, but curious to see what Rider would say.

But Rider only gave him a bland smile. "I'm not up to anything." He exhaled and then fixed on Thoms an almost perplexed look. "Why are you so hard on him, anyway?"

Thomas's eyebrows arched. "Me hard on him? You haven't been here very long."

"He's a good man."

"If you say so. But I still maintain that you haven't been here very long."

"Perhaps it's you," Rider said with a faint smile.

"Ah, so Mr. Carson doesn't always speak of me in sugar-coated terms.'

This elicited a dry chuckle from the other man. "Not exactly. No. But I don't think he dislikes you so much as that he's exasperated with you."

"You're wrong there." Thomas didn't really want to talk about Mr. Carson. He never did. "This race, then. You're on. His Lordship thinks it's a good idea."

The smile that lit Rider's face at this was one of genuine delight. "We'll give him his money's worth, Mr. Barrow!"

Despite himself, or perhaps because of the good feeling that had enveloped him since the Berlin opportunity had occurred, Thomas smiled back, conveying more warmth than he usually displayed. "I think we will."

"Why'd you agree to it?"

Thomas took his time answering that question. He tilted his head back and let the smoke waft slowly from his slightly parted lips. And then he dropped his gaze abruptly to Rider. "I didn't go to Cambridge. Never had that kind of an opportunity. But I think I'm as good as a Cambridge man. In this instance, maybe even a little better." He smiled as he spoke. There was no malice in this exchange.

Rider took no offense, but he did look a little surprised. "I thought perhaps you were doing it for Daisy. She certainly took your part."

Thomas snorted. "What? Daisy! No!" He was firm on that. Almost affronted. _Daisy_! Oh, if only Daniel Rider knew where Thomas's heart lay, on the continent with an eyeful named Erich. Perhaps it was the jarring implication that someone as mundane as Daisy could ever draw his eye that provoked Thomas just a little. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

The mood changed.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." Thomas dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his heel. "A Cambridge man, a junior officer in the Great War...," Thomas only guessed at that, but Rider did not contradict him, "formerly of the Colonial Office. What are you hiding?"

"Nothing."

Thomas admired the man's aplomb. It was a characteristic they shared.

"What about that... _incident_... at Cambridge?" He gave it the same insinuating inflection that Tim Grey had done from the staircase at the Abbey.

But Daniel Rider was not going to be surprised by that reference again. His expression did not change. "Do you listen at keyholes, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas said nothing.

"I was up at Cambridge with the Grey brothers," Rider admitted. "I don't know how well you know them, but I did not find either of them to be honourable."

 _Honourable_. It was the way gentlemen spoke of each other. Thomas knew enough of the Greys to accept the truth of this observation, but they were talking about Daniel Rider here, not Lord Merton's vile sons. "But they finished their degrees," he said, making it obvious that he _did_ listen at keyholes, or lurk in the shadows at any rate. "You left after two years. Was it cheating?"

Even as he asked, Thomas assessed his own feelings on that score. Not bound by quite the same honour code to which gentlemen adhered, Thomas thought he would be disappointed if Rider conceded this, for to be caught at cheating would suggest a level of incompetence Thomas reviled. To cheat and get away with it was an accomplishment of sorts. To be caught was just pathetic.

"No, Mr. Barrow," Rider said almost gravely. "I did not cheat. I don't cheat. Or lie. And I don't have a sinister past." And then his crisp shoulder line wilted a bit. "I only wish I could convince Mrs. Carson of that," he said, looking discouraged.

It was yet another deflection of the issue, but Thomas didn't mind pursuing this one. "What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Carson doesn't like me," Rider said frankly. "I don't know why."

"Don't you?" Clearly the man wasn't as bright as Thomas had pegged him.

"Well, do you?"

"You've stolen her husband, haven't you!" Thomas barked.

"What?"

"Before you came," Thomas said, leaning toward the other man and lowering his voice in a mock conspiratorial manner, "Mr. Carson only had eyes for her. Well. And Lady Mary. But she knew that going in. Then _you_ come along and he's smitten with you, isn't he."

"What?"

Thomas sighed. "You don't know it, because you _haven't_ been here very long, but our Mr. Carson has never liked anyone but the family and Mrs. Carson. But he's charmed by you, I've seen it right along. She's jealous," he finished triumphantly. And he thought she was, too. Oh, she might also be legitimately suspicious of Rider for other reasons, as Thomas himself was. But one had only to look at the way Mr. Carson's fond gaze fell on Daniel Rider to understand why Mrs. Carson might be aggravated about it.

"Really?"

"Yes," Thomas said emphatically. "And I didn't have to go to Cambridge to figure that out."

Rider puzzled over this. He drew down the last bit of his cigarette and like Barrow cast it to the ground and quite deliberately pulverized it with his heel. "She likes you," he said, reserving his thoughts on what Thomas had said.

Thomas only shook his head at the other's misguided understanding of Downton realities. "I don't think so."

"She does," Rider insisted. "She speaks well of you. Often."

Thomas considered this. "She ... accepts me," he said finally. "He barely tolerates me." Almost immediately he regretted his words. Why was he speaking thus to Daniel Rider?

It seemed that Rider sensed the oddness of this as well. "That's an interesting choice of words, Mr. Barrow."

"Well. I must be getting on," Thomas said abruptly. He _had_ spent too long in the yard. There was much work to be done. "Thank you for the chat, Mr. Rider."

It wasn't the gracious departure he would have liked. Somehow Rider had gotten the better of him there at the end, when Thomas had had all the cards. Even more aggravating, as he came through the door into the passage he almost collided with Lewis, who was standing at the door, pocket watch open in his hand and a look of profound disapproval on his face.

 **The Molesleys**

Molesley dropped in to see his father often. When he was in service at Crawley House and Downton Abbey, he had taken the opportunity offered by an errand in the village to poke his head in the door and had almost always spent at least part of his day out with his father. Now that his time outside the classroom was his own to arrange and the cottage conveniently located between his own and the school, his visits were more frequent still. But he was just a little nervous returning to his father's home a few days after the tea with Miss Baxter. He had arranged that occasion quite deliberately, wanting his father and Miss Baxter to become better acquainted. That they should get on seemed to him necessary in order to move forward. And so he came by after school on Monday, though he ought to have gone straight home to prepare lessons for the next day, and accepted his father's invitation to tea.

"Miss Baxter enjoyed her afternoon with us," he said, raising the subject as Dad poured the tea.

"Oh, aye. She said so in her note."

Molesley smiled faintly at this. Of course she would send a note of thanks. She had the most impeccable manners.

"She _especially_ enjoyed my garden," William Molesley added, with an approving nod.

Better still. "Did you...like her, Dad?" He tried to maintain a casual note, knowing all the while that the one person he could never fool was his father. In all his life, he had never invited a girl or a woman home to meet his parents. To pretend this was a mundane occasion of no particular significance was impossible.

The older man stirred his tea absently and then focused his sharp blue eyes on his son. "Aye, well enough. What about you?"

That was the question. Had anyone else asked it, Molesley would have gotten flustered and stammered a lot and gone red in the face. But he had nothing to hide from his dad. "I like her a lot," he said forthrightly.

His father said nothing, only continuing to stare at him.

Molesley licked his lips. He didn't have secrets from his dad. Miss Baxter was entitled to do what she liked with her own, but Molesley felt there could hardly be a solid relationship between these two people who meant so much to him if her troubles were not revealed. "There's something about her, about her past. She...did something and..." Confident though he was in his father's reaction, he was now stammering just a little. It was not really his story to tell. Yet he knew she would never tell it.

"Do you know what it is?" William Molesley asked bluntly, interrupting his son's agonized reveries.

"I do."

"And are _you_ bothered by it?"

Without hesitation, because he had wrestled with it and worked it through in his own mind, Molesley responded, "No." His voice was uncharacteristically firm. "I mean, I was. But I thought about it a lot and came through it." He paused. "I think ... it might be well if you knew it, too."

But William Molesley only shrugged his shoulders and reached out to take a biscuit from the plate he had set out. "It's nought to do with me," he said firmly.

A warm smile crossed the son's face at this. "Thanks, Dad."

 **Robert and Bates**

"Do you know, Bates, for a moment I thought Carson might say no." Robert spoke over his shoulder as Bates helped him out of his dinner jacket.

"Mr. Carson would never say no to you, my lord," Bates said reassuringly.

"There was a time when I could be certain of that," Robert said, "but Her Ladyship the Dowager has stolen him away. _Not_ for the first time. I suppose that's where Lady Mary gets it, this habit of poaching my servants." He wore an amused look as he spoke, though there was, he knew, more than a grain of truth to it as well. "And, of course, Carson wouldn't say no to _her_."

It was an old joke between lord and valet, and Bates laughed quietly at it. "So Mr. Barrow is to go to Berlin," he said, not quite managing to disguise his surprise.

"Yes. And I can't imagine why, having worked so hard to become the butler of Downton Abbey, he would throw it over, even for a few days, to go to Berlin." Robert was genuinely bemused by this. "I've never been one for foreign places," he added. "What about you, Bates?"

If Robert had doubts on this, Bates set his mind to rest firmly. "I had my fill of that in South Africa, my lord."

"As did I."

"But ... I wouldn't mind seeing America," Bates said thoughtfully.

Robert shook his head dismissively. "I've been there. It's highly overrated."

This elicited a grin from Bates. "I think Mr. Barrow is more adventurous, my lord."

Though Bates's tone was an even one, there was something about his careful wording that struck Robert. "That sounds as if you know something, Bates."

"I might," Bates said cautiously. "But I cannot say, my lord."

Robert sighed. "Of course not. Why should you be any different? My butler is taking a holiday to Berlin and everyone but me knows why."

"Not _everyone_ , my lord," Bates assured him.

The subject of his butler's travels exasperated Robert, more because of his daughter's interference than anything Barrow might have done, so he changed the subject. He slipped into the dressing gown Bates held out and then watched as the valet hung up his shirt.

"If I'm not much mistaken, it seems to me that you've been rather cheerful of late, Bates. May I ask if there's a special reason for this?" Robert did not use the word _taciturn_ to describe his valet, preferring _reserved_ or _discreet_ , for the formal facade of Bates's professional _mien_ was not so rigid where his employer was concerned. But the lightheartedness of Bates's demeanour recently was significant enough to have secured Robert's notice. And his speculation was proven right when Bates's face split in an uncharacteristic grin.

"There is, my lord. A _very_ special reason. Anna is pregnant."

"A second child!" Robert's elation was sincere. He had known no euphoria in his life comparable to the way he had felt on those three - no, four - occasions when Cora had told him he was to be a father. That the fourth had ended in tragedy had not dimmed the exultation of that moment of revelation. "Congratulations, Bates!"

"Thank you, my lord," Bates responded animatedly. "We've looked into the special arrangements that made our son's birth possible and we hope that the arrival of our second child will be somewhat less dramatic than that of the first."

It was an allusion to the peculiar circumstances of Robbie Bates's birth, but Robert was not persuaded.

"Your second child may not arrive in the midst of a wedding reception, or on the of the new year, or in Lady Mary's bed," he conceded quietly. "But I can assure you, Bates, it will be every bit as dramatic, and as harrowing _and_ exhilarating, as the birth of your first child. It's a miracle that never ceases to strike awe into the hearts of we mere mortals, no matter how often repeated."

They had a moment then, as men and as fathers, and then it passed, for neither was inclined to indulge in sentiment.

"Goodnight, Bates."

"Goodnight, my lord."

 ***Author's Note.** The Trinity Great Court Run is a longstanding Cambridge tradition, immortalized for those of us not privileged to attend that great institution in the film _Chariots of Fire_. The first person to run it successfully - David Cecil, Lord Burghley - did so in 1927, thus Daniel Rider's statement here is an accurate one.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 27 The Calm**

 **Tuesday September 21 to Thursday September 23**

 **Charlie and Elsie**

On Tuesday morning in their cottage on the lane, Charlie was sitting perfectly still while Elsie scraped the last of a night's growth of stubble from his face. Then he sighed in contentment as she pressed a warm towel to his face.

"Better even than Mr. Bates," he murmured, gazing affectionately at her.

"Flattery is unnecessary, Mr. Carson," she said brusquely, though the sparkle in her eyes belied the crisp tone of her words. "A simple thank you will do."

"Thank you, my love."

She stroked his cheek, now silky smooth. "You're fit to the see the Dowager at any rate."

"So long as I'm fit to kiss my wife," he said, standing up and reaching for her.

She indulged him for a minute or two. "I've got to get to work now," she said, pulling away gently, letting him know that it was a bit of a struggle.

He followed her downstairs. "How will it be, working together again after all this time?" he asked, collecting her coat and helping her into it. "Will you mind?"

He knew better and she knew it, so she gave him a look. "Mind! I'm looking forward to it. I don't reject everything about the past, you know." Her ambivalence toward his writing project may have given him that impression, but though she didn't live in the past or long for it as her husband sometimes did, she had not objection to visiting it now and again. " _After all this time_ ," she added, almost beneath her breath. "It's not even been a year."

"And I thought you've been enjoying Mr. Barrow's regime," he said, teasing.

"He's perfectly fine, as you well know, and as you're sure to find out when you look over his books. But he's no Charlie Carson."

They gazed at each other with a loving reverence, kissed, and then parted.

 **Mrs. Patmore and Daisy**

The second post on Tuesday afternoon gave Mrs. Patmore a start.

"It's a letter from my sister, Kate," she told Daisy, even as she read it while stirring a large pot of soup. This in itself was not news for Kate Philpotts and Beryl Patmore diligently wrote to each other once a week. It was the contents of the letter that threw the cook into a stew. "And...oh! She wants to come for a visit!"

Daisy almost missed the edge of the bowl on which she was cracking an egg. "What?" Daisy knew Mrs. Patmore's family intimately, but only from the cook's descriptions and tales of them. The only one she'd ever set eyes on was Mrs. Patmore's niece, Lucy, who ran her bed-and-breakfast. Lucy had turned out to be a dull sort, but competent enough for the work she did. Mrs. Patmore's sisters, on the other hand, were the stuff of legend. The youngest had died years ago, but Kate, who had chosen the more traditional path of wife and motherhood, and then known both widowhood and the death of a son, Archie, in the war, was a vivid presence in the Downton kitchen through the colourful letters Mrs. Patmore shared with her assistant.

Mrs. Patmore read the letter through, murmuring her way through the words in a voice not quite audible enough for Daisy to distinguish them. "She wants to come in November. For the Armistice service on the 11th." She looked up then and met Daisy's gaze with eyes that shone with a pain that had become part of who she was. "She's never seen Archie's memorial. She'd like to."

"That's nice," Daisy said gently. "And she can visit with Lucy and stay at your bed-and-breakfast."

"Yes," Mrs. Patmore said, almost distractedly. "Yes, I suppose she can."

Daisy studied her for a moment. "Aren't you happy about this?" Daisy had no siblings. She didn't hold this against her parents, those faint shadows of her long-ago past, but she did sometimes muse that it might be pleasant to have close blood relatives and sisters in particular. Though sisters did not always get on - witness Lady Mary and Lady Edith - still it seemed that, as in Mrs. Patmore's case, they could be quite a blessing.

"Of course I am," Mrs. Patmore said emphatically. "I can't wait."

 **The Dowager and the Doctor**

 _A carriage ride in the park_!

"And in a barouche! Dr. Clarkson, wherever did you find _this_ relic of the golden past?"

The Dowager Lady Grantham was in her element. Or rather, in her element as it once had been. She and Dr. Clarkson sat across from each other in the most elegant of afternoon carriages - a _barouche_ \- specifically designed for the indulgence of circuits of an estate park, with the hood down that the Dowager might enjoy the view. Across her lap was a stylish carriage blanket of bright blue that magnified the brilliancy of her sparkling periwinkle eyes. Before them on the high seat, the driver was formally attired in a ceremonial red coat, though of a generic design for the Dowager did not notice any identifying insignia. And the coach itself was drawn by two handsome highstepping and matched white carriage horses such as Violet Crawley had not set eyes upon in years.

"It took some work," Clarkson admitted. It was an occasion and he had dressed appropriately for it, eschewing the workday suit that was the uniform of his profession for one of higher quality that he wore on those occasions when he dined with the family, attended funerals, or marked other solemn occasions such as the Armistice.

She was thrilled, there was no other word for it. But there was a tinge of sadness in her voice as she drew her attention from the autumn splendour of Downton and addressed him directly about this very special indulgence.

"I hope you're not pitying me, doctor."

He met her gaze directly and spoke in a forthright manner. "Nothing of the sort, Lady Grantham," he said with that quiet dignity that was innate to him. "My business is with the living, not the dying. It is only that I remember your once lamenting the disappearance of this tradition and thought you might enjoy seeing the estate as you knew it for so many years."

She gave him a searching look. "Thank you."

He nodded an acknowledgment and relaxed into the moment himself.

" _I_ remember that you spoke somewhat disparagingly of the practice," Lady Violet said, after a while, fixing him with an astute look.

"Only as a habit exercised in exclusion to a real life," he countered with a smile. "As an occasional diversion it has much to recommend it."

They drove on in companionable silence for some time.

"I have had a good life," Lady Violet said at length and with conviction. The glorious vistas of the quiet country lanes that traversed the great estate that she had loved since she came to Downton as a young bride so many years ago could not but sustain her in that declaration.

"You _have_ a good life," the doctor said, unable to resist the correction.

But the Dowager was in no mood to do battle with him today. She turned to him with a smile of serenity. "I do," she said agreeably. "And you, doctor?"

"Yes," he said, after a pause. "Yes. I have a good life."

Their eyes met and it was a good long moment before he yielded and looked away again, left with a faint uneasiness over who was pitying whom.

 **Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson**

Mid-afternoon usually saw a brief lull in the activity downstairs at Downton, though the traffic in and out of the servants' hall and through the kitchen was steady. It was not that the staff had nothing to do, but rather that at this time of day no one had anything _pressing_ to do.

And so Mrs. Carson and Mrs. Patmore were able to exchange a few words when the latter paused to catch her breath before plunging into dinner preparations.

"Mr. Barrow going to Berlin!" Mrs. Patmore said, her eyes bulging a little. "Well, we know what that's about!" Mr. Barrow had made the announcement at lunch earlier in the day.

"Hush!" The housekeeper admonished her, with a sharp glance at the scullery maid, Louise, who was peeling potatoes in the corner. "He's going to attend to Mr. Talbot who has business with the Germans."

"I think Mr. Barrow may have a little unfinished business of his own," the cook persisted boldly.

"Mrs. Patmore." There was a warning note to Mrs. Carson's speech, one she had not taken with her colleague in years.

"Would _you_ like to go to Berlin?" Mrs. Patmore asked, ignoring the rebuke.

Mrs. Carson allowed herself to be deflected. "I'd like to go _anywhere_. Wouldn't you?"

"I think I'd like to go somewhere hot."

"Do you mean to say," Mrs. Carson said mischievously, "that if Lady Flintshire had invited you to India as a cook in the diplomatic mission in Bombay, you would have gone?"

Mrs. Patmore snorted. "I wouldn't go to heaven with Lady Flintshire. No, I was thinking of someplace with a nice beach. Like Bermuda. But I'll never get there. Did I tell you my sister Kate is coming to visit me?"

She had.

 **Molesley and Baxter**

"Mr. Molesley!"

In the absence of the housekeeper, who now on her reduced hours schedule always took supper with her husband at their cottage, it was Madge seated in Mrs. Carson's place who first set eyes on the schoolteacher hovering in the passage. His unexpected appearance caused a mild stir among the few at the table and they turned to look at him.

Mr. Barrow rolled his eyes, but no one noticed, least of all Mr. Molesley or Miss Baxter who saw only each other.

"Come in, Mr. Molesley," Barrow said with as much geniality as he could muster. The slow-to-the-point-of-petrification dance between the former footman and the lady's maid drove him to distraction. But he was still in a state of semi-euphoria over his own good news and so could afford to be expansive. "Would you care to join us?"

"Oh ... no. No, thank you, Mr. Barrow. I only... If I might, could I have a word with Miss Baxter?"

Though she coloured faintly at this attention, Miss Baxter excused herself and withdrew with Mr. Molesley into the passage. To distract the company from descending into a truly unbearable level of gossip over this development, Mr. Barrow took the initiative.

"About this race next month, then. I hope I can count on you all to bet on me?"

Beyond the servants' hall, Mr. Molesley smiled a greeting to Miss Baxter and then led her out into the courtyard which was lit at this time of night only by the dim electric bulbs by the door and the lanterns at the gate.

"What is it?" Miss Baxter asked, curious. She leaned naturally to apprehension when confronted with sudden developments, but Mr. Molesley's buoyancy dispelled that. He could only have good news.

"I've talked to my class and I wanted you to know right away ... Well, as soon as I could tell you. Yesterday I had to...wanted to... I went to see my dad. But today... I could've waited 'til the weekend, but I thought, no, so..."

Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley were familiar with each other's manner of speaking, he sometimes convoluted, she hesitant to the point of painfulness, so his garbled delivery did not deter his listener, who only waited patiently for him to get to the point.

"I told them about my idea, telling the stories of Downton's ... of the men from the estate and the village who died in the war, and the children were... they were..." Even in the dim light Miss Baxter could see the jubilant look on his face. "... they wanted to get started right away, so we all went to the memorial after school was let out to take down the names." He caught himself. "Well, to make sure we got _all_ the names, because everyone knew someone..."

She knew what he meant. "That's wonderful!"

"I think it really will come together and we'll have something ... grand ... to offer for the Armistice day commemorations," he bubbled on. "And I...I wanted to thank you for helping me..."

"It was your idea."

"You made it possible for me to think of it."

Their unassuming and modest personalities inhibited either from wholly taking credit where credit was due.

"And." He wasn't quite done yet. "I wanted to tell you..." He came over more serious now, less exuberant, but no less intense. "That...my dad really likes you."

It was precisely the kind of understatement that would have sent Mr. Barrow into a paroxysm of exasperation, but to Miss Baxter, who cherished every small morsel of acceptance, it was a very welcome revelation indeed.

 **Robert and Cora**

"Can you feel it, my darling?" Robert asked Cora on Wednesday morning, bending over her shoulder to plant gentle kiss on her soft cheek. "All is peaceful at Downton. It's almost like a day before the war."

"I wouldn't go that far," Cora said cautiously. "And after the weekend we've had?" But his high spirits were infectious and she closed the ledger before her on the desk and turned toward him.

He had straightened up but did not move from her side. "Edith and Marigold returned safely to Brancaster, Edith and Bertie are talking again, they love each other, they'll make it up." He spoke with a confidence borne of the experience of his own marriage. He and Cora had weathered all their difficulties and he loved her more than ever, something he did not tell her often enough.

Cora was amused. "Carson is only going to be here for a few days, you know. And it _won't_ be the same."

He shrugged easily. "Close enough. And there are other things to be pleased about. Mary was civil to Edith for almost three days. Mary and Henry appear to be in a better place. I saw George on his pony yesterday afternoon in the paddock and I think he may soon be able to ride with the hunt." That last might have been a slight exaggeration, but Robert was optimistic. "And I've checked your day book and see that your regular meeting was cancelled. Would you care to join me for lunch in York?"

Cora reached out for him, drew her hand over his, tracing contours there that she knew so well. "I'd love to."

 **John and Anna**

They walked hand in hand down the gravel path to the village, reveling in this rare opportunity to be alone, away from Downton and its distractions and even, briefly, from their son. Their life together had been a collection of such small moments, snatched from the busy-ness of their work and the complications of their private lives, and they knew to appreciate them when they appeared.

"I could have gotten the post _for_ you," Anna told her husband. "I don't open your mail."

"I know that," John said. "You'd rather weasel secrets out of me directly."

"If only!" Anna responded with a laugh, swinging high the hand that was unencumbered with the cane. "When have I ever been successful at trying to worm a secret from you?"

He smiled inscrutably. "Why do you think I'm the best secret keeper at Downton?"

Laughing together they strolled into the post office.

"Your ears must have been ringing," Mrs. Wigan called out to them.

Bates looked quite deliberately around the shop that was empty but for Mrs. Wigan, wondering with whom the post mistress had been discussing them. Anna dug an elbow into his side. "It's just an expression," she chided him good-naturedly.

"You have some post for us," John surmised, adopting a solemn look for Anna's benefit.

"For you, Mr. Bates, and for the two of you." She bustled behind her wicket for a moment and then looked up, holding several envelopes in her hand. "Did you want to take all the mail for the Abbey?"

"Yes, please." Others might have engaged in a bit of a debate about that, or noted that it would relieve someone from the Abbey coming down later, but John Bates had always been a man of few words. He stared so hard at Mrs. Wigan as she put the packet together than her eyes didn't stray to the return addresses, at least not obviously.

Stepping out into the High Street once more, Anna shook her head at her husband. "You're not very nice to her."

"I don't like people who pry into other people's business," John said bluntly.

"I think it comes with the territory of postmistress," Anna said genially. "How can one _not_ notice things in such a job?"

"There is such a thing as discretion. We exercise it in our work. I think she could manage just a bit more of it in hers." He stopped to flip through the letters on top, the ones that belonged to them. He lingered over one.

"Is that a reply for your ... project?" Anna asked delicately, studying his face.

"Yes. Yes, I think it is." He tucked that one into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Look. _This_ one is from Mr. Sykes, the agent in York. The one who said he'd keep an eye out for properties for us." Inhibited by his cane and the rest of the post, John handed the envelope to her.

Anna pried up the corner and then neatly slit it open with a fingernail. They stood there in the shade of Bakewells' and together pored over the contents.

"An inn," John said aloud. "In Grassington." He grinned. "We'd be in the Dales proper there. Lovely country." There was no mistaking the enthusiasm in his voice.

"We could go for walks," Anna said brightly, looping her arm through his. "But ... it is rather far from Downton."

He heard the temporization in her voice. " _Looking_ isn't _buying_ ," he reminded her. "Perhaps we could take a day and bring Robbie with us. Wherever we go it will be his home, too. We ought to give him a look in."

Anna rolled her eyes a bit. "A look, perhaps. But not a vote, Mr. Bates."

"So you're not a democrat, then," he said with a grin. "It wouldn't hurt to look, Anna. We ought to try to stretch our minds just a little."

She tightened her grip on him. "Let's see what we can arrange with His Lordship and Lady Mary."

 **Mary and Henry**

Mary and Henry were enjoying a nightcap in the library on their own, Robert and Cora having already retired. It was the habit of the older couple to keep regular habits, in some small part out of consideration for the servants - the valet and lady's maid - who attended to them. Mary had once subscribed to this, as well, but with Anna now released from this late evening duty, Mary was free of this small sensitivity.

It occurred to Mary that she might point out to her husband that it _was_ possible for them to be alone together - outside of their bedroom - at Downton, that there was no need for them to have a house of their own for that purpose. But the words died on her lips. It was an issue between them and issues caused friction. Better to avoid the avoidable ones. Henry's voice startled her.

"Would you like to come to Berlin with me?" His tone was casual, his pose - on the sofa across from her - languid, but the eyes focused on her were alert.

"With you and Barrow?" Mary might forgo a point of conflict, but not an opportunity to tease.

Henry laughed. "Would you?" he persisted.

"I'm not very fond of the Germans these days," Mary admitted.

Henry acknowledged this, but then shifted his position swiftly and fluidly, leaning toward her with an earnestness in his countenance. "The war was only a moment in history, Mary. Berlin is an eternal city. You might enjoy it."

She thought about it. She owed him that. And, of course, he was right about Berlin and about Germany, too. She didn't want to sound like Granny, whose disdain for France had been fixed by Louis-Napoleon and the Second Republic and who hadn't seen fit to change her mind since.

"It's not the right time," she said finally. "Not with Stephen. But...I do appreciate the invitation, darling. And if all goes well with your business dealings - and knowing you and Tom, it will - then perhaps I'll take you up on it for the next trip."

"I'll hold you to that," Henry said with a grin.

Mary smiled back at him. She had pleased him. And that pleased her.

 **Tom**

Thursday evening was one like any other in the increasingly familiar pattern of life at Shamrock Cottage. Tom came home at the usual hour to the aroma of a delicious meal underway in the kitchen at the hands of Mrs. Hutton, the now-indispensable housekeeper, and to an enthusiastic welcome from Sybbie, who dropped whatever she was doing in the moment to greet him. They talked over their day while eating in the modest dining room, just the two of them as Mrs. Hutton liked to preserve the distinction of rank. Tom would not have put it quite that way, but he did enjoy the time with Sybbie.

After they ate, Sybbie read her lessons though this was hardly necessary for she was well in advance of most of her schoolmates, the result of a precocious mind and some pre-school instruction from Nanny in the Downton nursery. Tom listened to her, satisfied that she was excelling in her work and progressing with regard to her interaction with the other children. She still sounded a bit bossy to his ear, but remembrances of early days in Ireland suggested to him that her peers would rein that in when necessary. And it occurred to him that it might be an inborn trait, one she shared with her Aunt Mary, though not with her mother Sybil.

For a while before Sybbie went to bed, they played cards as they often did now. This had been a favoured past-time of Tom's own childhood of an evening and he was glad - finally - to have the opportunity to do these kinds of things with her.

Once he'd seen her to bed, Tom turned his mind to his own affairs, drawing up a list of tasks for the morrow, reviewing the list of appointments for the week following, examining the schedule he and Henry had drawn up for the days that Henry would be in Germany. Tom was pleased that Henry had taken up that initiative. The idea of making connections with car men on the Continent was a sound one from a business point of view. It was only that things had gone so badly on the social level at Downton.

And then his mind drifted to his own troubles. They'd gone to the police on Monday afternoon, Tom conceding the necessity of it in the face of Henry's insistence. The York sergeant had been sympathetic, but not especially helpful. He had urged Tom to greater diligence and promised to advise the local bobby to keep an especial lookout when in the neighbourhood of the shop. But as the majority of the incidents had occurred around Downton, the sergeant suggested that Downton's own Sergeant Willis ought to be notified. Though troubling, the harassment was of a nature more appropriate to the investigations of the local constabulary, being fairly harmless even if somewhat malicious. Neither Tom nor Henry had been satisfied, but they could not think of anything else to do.

The idea that someone bore such a grudge against him ate away at Tom. Differences of opinion, even serious ones, were only natural. It was the covert nature of the vendetta that unsettled him.

It was not, however, something he was going to settle tonight by staying up brooding over it. No, this was a matter for the long haul, requiring acute attention and patience until the perpetrator slipped up and gave himself away, or got bored and abandoned the pursuit. Resigned to this, Tom checked the doors and then went up to bed himself.

 **Miss Baxter**

At Downton Abbey, Miss Baxter had readied Her Ladyship for bed and withdrawn from the room as His Lordship came in from his dressing room. She could hear the pleasant tones of their murmured conversation as she closed the door behind her. She was glad to climb the stairs to the servants' rooms in the attics. Miss Baxter enjoyed her job, was immensely grateful to _have_ a job, and this one in particular, but was still a relief to put her head down every night.

The lavatory was free and then she retired to her room to finish her washing up. The water in her pitcher was tepid not hot, but Phyllis Baxter preferred the privacy of her own room because it _was_ her own room. She was a quiet woman but life at Downton was seldom quiet, so she lived amidst almost constant activity. In the solitude of her attic room she reveled in the tranquillity of being alone for those short hours of the night. It was a luxury she had known at no other point of her life.

Tonight her thoughts strayed, as they often did, to Mr. Molesley. He had been in such a funk almost the whole summer long about his conduct during the war. Someone else might have told him that enough was enough and that it was time to put it behind him. But Miss Baxter appreciated how Mr. Molesley's war had become an abscess on his conscience, something that could not heal on its own but which required treatment. It was an experience they shared and she had prayed that he might find the path to redemption that had eluded her. And so he had. She was grateful for this and excited for him. For some reason she could not quite identify what Mr. Molesley had said about his father - about how his father "really liked" her - _her_ \- excited her in a different way. It was something to ponder.

Before she got into bed she put out the light and then went to stand at her small window for a few moments as she did every night. That great sable blanket ornamented with sparkling stars never failed to awe and humble her. She felt the presence of God in its magnitude and yet remained undaunted. With the universe spread out before her in this way, she appreciated as she did nowhere else the small part she played within it.

Tonight it was there as it always was, reassuring in its reliability. But there was something else, too, though it took her a moment to realize what it was. When she did, she screamed. And then she spun around and scrambled for the door and, in her frantic effort to navigate the room in the now obstructive darkness, knocked over the pitcher by the door sending it crashing to the floor. But she didn't notice, fumbling now to release the latch and get out into the passage. Yanking the door open, she put her head out and screamed again.

"Fire! Fire!"

Doors opened nearby - Mrs. Patmore, looking even frumpier than usual in her dressing gown; Louise, the new scullery maid who had found it impossible to get to work on time from her home in the village. And then someone was pounding at the locked door that separated the men's quarters from the women. Miss Baxter threw herself at it and released the lever. It fell open to reveal Mr. Barrow, with Andy crowding behind him and Lewis visible in the corridor beyond.

"Where?" he demanded, taking Miss Baxter at her word.

"On the estate," she gasped. "I don't know exactly. I just saw the flames from my window."

Barrow was already pushed past her. He darted into her room and was back in the passage again in a matter of seconds. "It's the agent's cottage," he bellowed. "Mr. Bransons' place! I'll call the fire brigade. Miss Baxter, wake His Lordship and Mr. Talbot. Andy! Lewis! Get out there!"

Mr. Barrow ran back into his room but he overtook Miss Baxter on the servants' staircase before she had reached the gallery. He'd pulled on a pair of trousers and his shoes, and was shouldering his way into a shirt as he passed her. The telephone was in the Great Hall on the main floor. She was just opening the door onto the gallery when Andy and Lewis came thundering along behind her, their shirttails flying as wildly as Mr. Barrow's had done.

Baxter herself raced to the master bedroom and rapped on the door - almost timidly at first. And then she just pushed in. She had never intruded on Her Ladyship in this way before, but surely such a crisis justified a bold act.

"My lady!" Baxter reached for Her Ladyship's shoulder to rouse her, another revolutionary departure in behaviour. "Please! My lady!"

"Baxter?" His Lordship spoke drowsily, but managed to turn the light on. In an instant both he and Her Ladyship were awake, galvanized by the alarm in Baxter's voice and in her countenance. "What is it?" he demanded.

"Fire, my lord! At the agent's cottage! At Mr. Branson's!"

Miss Baxter did not think she would ever forget the look of horror that descended on their faces.

 **END OF EPISODE SIX**


	29. Chapter 29

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926.**

 **Episode 7. Chapter 1**

 _ **Thursday September 23 and Friday September 24, 1926**_

 **The Fire**

It was a harrowing night.

Galvanized by the frantic reaction of His Lordship and Her Ladyship, Miss Baxter ran down the passage and pounded on the door of the bedroom shared by Lady Mary and Mr. Talbot and then burst in to announce to them that Mr. Branson's cottage was on fire. Then she dashed back to find some appropriate clothes for Her Ladyship, knowing that both the Crawleys would want to go to the fire.

They did and this proved a momentary bone of contention between them.

"Robert."

He was throwing on his clothes and Cora spoke to him from the doorway of his dressing room, saying only his name and yet so much more. She knew he would want to be in the thick of things.

He paused. "I'll get the car," he conceded, though not without some disgruntlement.

And as Cora turned back into the bedroom, he pulled on the least formal clothes he could find in the wardrobe and raced out onto the gallery. Henry emerged almost at the same moment, buttoning his shirt as he went, and the two men hurried down the stairs, meeting Barrow at the bottom.

"I've summoned the fire brigade, my lord. They're on their way."

"Thank you, Barrow."

The butler hardly heard the words. With Mr. Talbot beside him and the footmen in tow, Barrow led the way out the front door of the Abbey - it was an emergency, after all - and headed out across country to the quiet service road that led down to Shamrock Cottage.

Despite the urgency of the situation, Cora kept her head.

"Blankets," she said to Baxter. "And coats. They'll need something against the cold." _If they got out_. She tried to push that thought from her mind.

By the time Cora and Mary had dressed, collected what they thought might be useful, and descended to the main floor. Robert had the car at the door. Though he drove rarely, Robert knew the estate intimately, its roads as well as its paths, and had just turned onto the service road when he had to pull over in the narrow lane to make way for the fire truck. It would be only lightly manned. Many of the volunteers, drawn by the fire bells, would be making their way overland, as Henry, Barrow, and the footmen had done, and join the action when they came to it.

The flames, alarming from a distance, were exponentially more frightening on the ground.

"My God," Robert said in an awed voice as he swung the Rolls into an out-of-the-way spot. "The whole place has gone up."

Mary and Cora were scanning the grounds, desperate to catch a glimpse of Tom, Sybbie, and Mrs. Hutton. They scrambled from the car together, but hung back just a little, cowed by the heat, but also anxious to stay out of the way of the men at work.

"Why is it burning so intensely?" Robert wondered, momentarily distracted by this fact. The cottage was made of stone, though of course all the framing, walls, and floors were wooden. Yet it seemed to him that the inferno raging within the stone framework was too severe.

"Tom!" Cora spotted him. "Sybbie!" The tone of her voice had gone up a pitch, so anxious was she for their safety, so relieved was she to see them alive. She hugged them both tightly, but turned immediately to Mrs. Hutton, draping a warm blanket over the shivering woman who stood next to them.

Robert reached out to take Sybbie from Tom. Crying "Donk!" Sybbie crumpled into her grandfather's warm and reassuring embrace and her already tear-stained face saw a renewed flood of anguish. Robert wrapped his arms about her and the blanket Mary tucked around Sybbie, and then withdrew a little from the group, murmuring soothingly to the agitated child.

Tom accepted a blanket automatically, only glancing at Mary as he did so. It was as though he could not turn his attention from the fire. Mary's gaze, too, turned to the raging blaze. Downton's volunteer fire brigade were distinctive in their uniform hats and coats, and their facility with the pump truck and fire hose made it clear that they knew their business. There were other men there, as well, anyone within hearing distance of the alarm, from the estate and the village. Mary caught sight of Molesley and the man who was working for Carson, and Pratt, who had clearly found his way despite being overlooked by Robert.

But Mary's great concern, now that she knew the residents of Shamrock Cottage were safe, was to find her husband and her eyes tore from one group to another, searching... And then she found him. There was a fire bucket line in place from the old hand pump that had once served the coach house that Tom had converted to a garage. Barrow was working the pump, the footmen and several others forming the chain, and Henry stood at the head of it closest to the flames. He'd thrown on the first shirt that came to hand, one of his dress white ones, and it was now black from the ash and smoke. The extent of the fire was such that the bucket brigade could not themselves hope to put it out; instead they were concentrating on keeping it from spreading, leaving the fire team and their hose to do the heavier work.

Watching Henry heaving bucket after bucket into the flames, his expression one of such determination despite the sweat rolling down his face from the extreme heat and his proximity to the blaze, Mary was overcome with admiration and awe. He was right in the thick of it. What courage! It had been the same when he had thrown himself into the firestorm of Charlie Rogers' car wreck at Brooklands. He did not hesitate to act, even with the memory of Charlie's death so vivid in his heart. Mary could not stop looking at him.

"I should be helping," Tom said suddenly. "It's my house." And he made to join the other men though, attired in his pajamas and two different shoes, he was hardly in a fit state to participate.

"No, Tom!" Cora caught hold of his arm. "Think of Sybbie," she begged him.

Robert, perhaps discerning Tom's intent, came up with the child lying more quietly in his arms now, her head on his shoulder. "There's nothing you can do," he said firmly.

And there was nothing _any_ of them could do. Nothing, that is, but contain the fire and let it burn itself out within the cottage walls.

"We should take Sybbie back to the Abbey," Robert went on, turning to Cora. "Before she catches her death of cold."

Cora nodded her agreement. "I'll get Mrs. Hutton." The housekeeper was standing a few feet away, warmer now with the blanket around her, but still shivering in shock.

"Tom?"

Tom did turn now to face Robert and to assure himself that Sybbie was all right. "Of course," he said, somewhat disjointedly, pulling the blanket up a little over Sybbie's shoulder. "I want to stay here. Until it's all over."

"I'll stay, too," Mary put in. "Henry's here," she said by way of explanation.

Robert accepted this. "We'll wait up," he said.

 **Afterwards**

After seeing Sybbie tucked in upstairs, Robert and Cora took up a vigil in the small library, the windows of which looked toward the cottage and from which they could see the glow from the fire. Miss Baxter had taken charge of Mrs. Hutton, leading her to the servants' quarters to settle her in a room there. Mrs. Patmore, who believed that all crises were better faced with a hot cup of tea and some biscuits, had provided them for His Lordship and Her Ladyship. They were greatly appreciated. Mrs. Patmore retired with their thanks and then took herself up to the attic rooms with a tray for the housekeeper of Shamrock Cottage from whom she hoped to hear the story in full.

The dregs of the tea had long since cooled when Cora caught sight of the several figures moving toward the Abbey in the pre-dawn light and nudged a drowsing Robert awake. Together they hurried out to meet them. The group was strung out in a ragged line. Henry and Mary walked arm in arm. Tom, who had taken up a coat and shed the blanket Mary had given him earlier, walked beside them, his head down. Barrow and Andrew were shoulder to shoulder, Lewis a little apart from them. All wore grim visages.

Cora went right to Tom and put her arms around him, a gesture more heartfelt and eloquent than any words she could have uttered.

Relieved to see them all, Robert turned first to his staff. "Barrow, Andrew, Lewis. Thank you for your tremendous efforts this night. You have our deepest gratitude."

This bolstered the three men a little and they stood straighter with his words, but Robert could see that they could hardly hold their eyes open. "We are all of us exhausted," he added. "Go to bed and we'll see if we can get things back on track at midday."

Grateful for this dispensation, butler and footmen murmured their thanks and faded away.

Withdrawing from Cora's embrace, Tom fixed his eyes upon her. "Where's Sybbie?"

"In the nursery with George, fast asleep," Cora told him, with a semblance of a smile. She was glad to have _some_ good news for him. "She drifted off right away.'

"We should go up, too," Robert suggested, as the family moved into the Great Hall.

"I think I'd like a drink," Mary said, responding to her father but looking at her husband. They led the way to the library and the others followed.

Tom, moving as though in a dream, let Cora lead him to the sofa. Henry, his face and clothes covered in ash and damp from his long night on the bucket brigade, went to stand by the fire place.

"What's the report?" Robert asked, handing a glass to Tom.

Mary gave Henry his whisky and remained at his side. "The cottage is completely gone," she said to fill the silence Tom left open. "The stone walls were falling down at the end. I thought the fire would burn forever."

Robert recalled his puzzlement earlier at the vigour of the blaze. "Why is that?" He was only wondering aloud, for they could not really know at this point, or so he thought.

"Because it was deliberately set," Henry said fiercely, eyes flashing in a face streaked black from the fire. "There was petrol all about."

"What?"

Cora, Robert, and Mary stared at him, stunned. Only Tom, his eyes still wide with the shock that had not diminished the whole long night, did not look his way.

"Petrol?" Cora's faced contorted in confusion. "But what...?"

"Petrol!" Robert spoke the same word at the same time, but there was a rising fury in his voice. He had just sat down and now was on his feet again. "We must have Sergeant Willis up here immediately. _Petrol_!" He paused and then looked to Tom, almost in disbelief. "This was attempted murder!" The thought was inconceivable, but if the evidence supported it...

"It wasn't," Tom said abruptly. "Attempted murder. It wasn't. He ... didn't want us to die."

This was almost as extraordinary a statement as the one Henry had just made.

"He...?"

"What?" Mary said again.

The three of them looked from Tom to Henry and back again.

Tom did not meet their anxious gazes but continued to stare unseeing across the room, frowning as though trying to remember, as though it were an effort to remember.

"I was in bed, asleep, when the fire started. We all were." He spoke slowly, his mind racing ahead as the words fell from his tongue. "And ... then there was a rock ... through my bedroom window and someone yelling _Fire! Fire_! I came right awake..." Had he not been uneasy in his sleep for weeks now, since the other rock incident? "... and before I could get to the window, I saw the flames." He looked round at them now, his eyes falling on each in turn. "I started shouting and I ran to Sybbie, scooped her out of her bed, and then we tore downstairs to Mrs. Hutton's room. She's just off the kitchen, at the back, and ... she _hadn't_ had warning and we had to wake her up. The front of the house was already filling with smoke when we came down the stairs, but the back was still clear at that point. We climbed out the window in Mrs. Hutton's room and came round the front ... more, I think, to see what was happening." There was a bewilderment in Tom's voice as though he still couldn't believe the events of the night.

"But ... who woke you?" Cora asked mystified.

Mary, as riveted to this narrative as her parents, frowned. "Are you saying it was the person who set the fire?"

"Yes."

"But ... why?" Cora persisted."Perhaps they ... he didn't know you were there and suddenly realized it?" She was trying to make sense of something that wasn't sensible.

"I don't know," Tom said hollowly.

"That's not quite so." Henry pushed away from the mantle and moved to stand more closely to the others. He was staring hard at Tom.

Robert looked from one to the other. "What's this all about?" he demanded, almost crossly, discerning that there was more going on than he and Cora and Mary knew.

"Tell them," Henry said simply, his gaze boring into his brother-in-law.

"Tell us what?" Robert pressed.

Mary's eyes rested on her husband, considering him for a moment, and then turned with her parents to Tom.

Cora, beside Tom, was as perplexed as the other two but took a more sympathetic approach, gently squeezing his arm. "Tom?"

He seemed to be labouring under a great burden, his shoulders weighed down with it. Then, with a great sigh, he told them.

They listened in stunned silence as he recounted the litany of incidents he had determinedly framed as pranks - the cow patty in the car, the ink on his office desk, his jacket tossed in a muddy puddle, the rock through the window at the Abbey, the dead grouse in his car at the cottage, the grit in the gas line of his car at the shop in York.

"And you didn't think to tell anyone?" Robert was incredulous, almost as much at Tom's reticence as at the events themselves.

Mary turned to Henry. "You knew." It was clear from her tone that she thought his silence a transgression.

"Don't blame him," Tom cut across her firmly, showing fire for the first time. "Henry didn't know everything, not until last week. And then he insisted we go to the police, which we did." Tom nodded in Robert's direction at this. "In York. But there wasn't much they could do except to advise me to stay on the alert and to summon them or Sergeant Willis if I saw anything suspicious."

"But why did you say nothing to us?" Robert demanded, struggling to suppress anger. "This ... culprit has clearly been operating around the estate, sometimes in broad daylight. If more people had known, if we had all been alerted to this business, there would have been that many more eyes to keep a lookout." It seemed so obvious to him. He made a sound of disgust.

"They were pranks," Tom said emphatically. "You don't call the police in for a cow patty or spilled ink."

This arrested Robert for the moment, but Cora spoke up then. "But the rock through the window."

"That one did trouble me," Tom admitted.

"The week before you moved to the cottage," Robert noted, connecting the dates. "Why," he was trying to choose his words carefully, "would you have moved out of Downton into a much less secure situation after that?"

The atmosphere in the room had changed. It was one thing for Tom to take risks with his own life, as foolish as that had proved to be. But to have knowingly exposed Sybbie to a hazardous situation... For Robert this resurrected memories of Tom's misadventures in Ireland when he had abandoned his wife, Robert's daughter, the very pregnant Lady Sybil, in a bid for his own freedom after having been implicated in illegal and violent actions there. Robert had overcome the fury he had felt toward Tom at that time, but perhaps not really forgiven him for it.

Cora sensed that this part of the past was roiling its way to the surface. They had come a great distance together, Robert and Tom, to the point where Robert considered Tom as a son, but this was the kind of thing that might very well create a wedge between them. Cora knew Tom well enough to believe that he might have suppressed the rock incident precisely to avoid having to delay his departure from Downton.

"They were aimed at _me_ ," Tom said sharply, responding to Robert. "They were silly, small things, and they were aimed at me." It was an explanation that would have held more water only the day before.

"Do you think this might have been another ... prank ... that got out of hand?" Cora asked, trying to defuse the situation. "That perhaps that's what prompted him to raise the alarm?"

"Splashing petrol about is not the _modus operandi_ of a prankster," Robert said curtly. "It may be that this ... assailant did not want to kill you, but the means in this instance are clearly criminal. Setting fire to someone's home is a criminal act, whether or not anyone is harmed. I'm going to call Sergeant Willis." He strode from the room.

Cora, deciding that she could best serve in the immediate situation by calming Robert, followed him.

"But ... who would want to harass you?" Mary asked. "You're hardly a figure of local opprobrium. The tenants and villagers all like you and the local establishment have more effective ways by far of expressing their disapproval than putting cow dung in your car or throwing rocks."

Before any of them could remark on this, a clock chimed and Mary was suddenly alert to a different imperative. "Six o'clock!" she said, getting rapidly to her feet. "I must see to Stephen." She paused, closed her eyes and took a deep breath as though to summon strength in her exhaustion, and then moved off.

Left alone for the first time that night, Tom and Henry exchanged long sober looks.

"I should have told them sooner," Tom conceded, with an acknowledging nod to his brother-in-law.

Henry shrugged. "You couldn't have known. I was troubled by what was happening, too, but no one could have predicted this." He paused. "But ... he ...," he used the pronoun deliberately, as Tom had done, "...gave you warning. He didn't want to kill you. He wanted ... what?" Henry was wondering aloud more than asking a direct question. "Still no idea, then, who it is? You didn't recognize the voice?"

Looking frustrated, Tom shook his head. "No. It was male. And," he added, recalling the theory Cora had advanced about the warning, "he wasn't ... alarmed. It wasn't a prank gone wrong. It was as though...," Tom was only coming to this realization as he said it, "with the strategic placing of the petrol, ensuring that we had a way out, waking me up, that it was all ... deliberate. Just as you said." He swallowed the remainder of his drink and stood up.

"We ought to go to bed," Henry said, putting down his own glass.

"We can't. Sergeant Willis will be here shortly. As if that will be any help in sorting this out."

The sun hadn't begun its ascent yet, but Tom went to one of the windows and drew open the shutters, a task routinely performed by the maids who would be wanting to get in here soon as they made their rounds. After the night just past it felt somehow wrong that the sun should still come up and that a day that promised fair weather should be dawning.

"I've seen a house burn before," Tom said meditatively, looking out onto the grounds. "I didn't know ... I couldn't know that it would feel like this."


	30. Chapter 30

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **Episode 7. Chapter 2**

 _ **Friday September 24, 1926**_

 **Daisy and Mrs. Patmore**

The fire dominated conversation at the Abbey all day and everyone came to it from their own perspective. And as the day unfolded a more complete picture of the events of the previous night fell into place upstairs and down, though the perplexing question as to where responsibility for the fire lay remained one that no one could answer.

"It's unfair!" Daisy pronounced vehemently to a somewhat bleary-eyed Mrs. Patmore as they prepared breakfast for a reduced staff. "Mr. Branson is a good man. He treats the farmers fairly and he's never put on airs with us since he moved upstairs. There's _some_ who would deserve this, but not him!"

Everyone downstairs cherished the sleeping hours which employment in service cut to the bone. And though Mrs. Patmore had not been up all night as the men had, she was still feeling the ill effects of an interrupted and abbreviated rest. This made her more impatient than ever with Daisy's thinly disguised critique of the family. But she was deterred from a rebuke on these grounds by an even more fundamental point. "Daisy, _no one_ deserves to have their house burned down over their heads."

 **Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson**

The cook had recovered somewhat from her own sleep deficit by mid-morning, enough at least to relate a coherent if patchy narrative of the night's events to Mrs. Carson over a quick cup of tea. With Mrs. Hutton as her primary source, Mrs. Patmore's account was thin on facts and laden with second-hand emotional overtones.

"How is the poor woman?" Mrs. Carson asked solicitously.

"Shaken up. As anyone would be. Have you ever been caught in a fire?" Mrs. Patmore had been counting her blessings on this score.

"Only the one we had here, when Lady Edith set fire to her room," Mrs. Carson replied, and then shook her head. It was a rare occasion indeed when she was at one with Lady Mary, but the housekeeper had not been impressed with Lady Edith's carelessness. No one could afford to be absent-minded when it came to safety with fire.

"Mrs. Hutton is worried she dropped a hot coal or didn't close the damper properly," Mrs. Patmore went on.

"Is anyone blaming her?"

"I don't think they know nought yet," Mrs. Patmore said vaguely. "I told her she wouldn't have done. Did you and Mr. Carson go to it?"

"No," was the reply. "Of course we heard the bells and Mr. Carson wanted to get up. But we knew it wasn't the Abbey from the direction of the glow in the sky. And we'd only have been in the way of those trying to put it out and I don't hold with gawking at other people's misfortunes."

"Of course not," Mrs. Patmore said agreeably, although she did not believe that there was anything wrong with natural curiosity. Hers had been thwarted the night before by her position in the household which demanded that she wait patiently behind the scenes and prepare for the return of the tired and hungry. She was diligent in the performance of her duties, but she did wish that she could have a front-row seat to _events_ just once.

"I am very sorry for Mr. Branson," Mrs. Carson said sympathetically. "And the poor child. But at least they had someplace to go. And they'll not be down long."

"And what about Mrs. Hutton? She'll have lost her place with this."

"Not if I know Mr. Branson," Mrs. Carson said firmly.

 **Robert, Tom and Henry**

Breakfast was later than usual upstairs and there only the men were present. Cora and Mary had both the leisure to lie down for a few hours and the inclination to do so. However strained the men were by their sleepless night, they chose to push through it. None of them noticed let alone remarked on the fact that a maid set out the meal and stood by ready to pour their coffee.

"Sergeant Willis had little more to offer than the police in York," Tom remarked. He said this for Robert's benefit, aware of the still smouldering embers of resentment that Tom's reticence had stirred. From Tom's perspective it was unrealistic to expect very much of the sergeant in such a case and in a way that was no reflection on the particular man. But he wanted Robert to realize that there had been no appropriate way to combat this menace.

"I've put in a call to Scotland Yard," Robert said abruptly. "They're sending an expert to examine the fire for possible clues. Sergeant Willis will rope off the site and keep the curious away, but we'll have our answers one way or another."

This presumptuous move on Robert's part, so in keeping with his lord-of-the-manor nature, rankled with Tom though he bit his tongue and settled for a quick glance at Henry to convey his irritation. If Robert was incensed by behaviour in Tom that he considered reckless, Tom could be equally irritated that his father-in-law did not recognize that it was precisely this kind of oversight that had encouraged Tom to remove himself just a little from the Abbey.

"And Willis can get a start on interviewing _everyone_ in the neighbourhood," Robert went on, oblivious to the effect of his words. " _Someone_ must have seen something."

"Ought I to cancel my trip to Berlin?" Henry asked. "I could easily reschedule."

"Of course not," Tom said quickly, pre-empting a response from Robert. "There's nothing you can do here. Go to Berlin next Friday." But he gave Henry a half-smile of thanks for the offer.

"How is Sybbie this morning?" Robert asked.

"She's holding up well." Tom had gone up to the nursery after the constable had left and sat with his daughter until she stirred. "I thought it best she stay home from school today."

For a moment it looked as though Robert might say something about that but seemed to think the better of it. He turned in another direction. "Has anything come to you about the voice you heard? Can you think of any identifying elements? Was it at all familiar?"

The sergeant had asked similar questions, but Robert seemed to find it hard to believe that the only clue they had so far gave them nothing.

Tom shook his head. "I didn't recognize it," he said firmly.

Robert made a disgruntled sound. "Then we must wait for the police to find something."

 **Downstairs Lunch**

By the time the staff sat down for lunch, the men had returned and a fuller picture began to emerge.

Andy proved that he could tell a story well and Barrow and Lewis let him do so. He told about the wild run down to the cottage in the dark, about how Mr. Talbot organized the bucket brigade while the fire fighters wielded their hose, about the fire that seemed to burn forever.

"It was hot!" he said emphatically, wiping his brow as though the sweat was still pouring off him. "But I was glad I'd put my clothes on properly before I left the Abbey. We never stopped."

"It's aggravating," Bates said in a quiet aside to his wife, "never to be able to help in such a crisis."

Like the Carsons, the Bateses had heard the fire bells and made the decision to stay out of the way, but it was frustrating for Bates to come up against the limitations of his body when, in his mind, he was still a man of action.

Anna knew there was nothing she could say to ease his discontent. She sought a distraction instead, addressing the man who sat across the table from her. "It was rather a shocking welcome to Downton for you, Lewis. It was good of you to help last night."

Anyone who knew Anna would have realized that she was trying to include Lewis, to draw him into the relatively congenial circle that existed downstairs at Downton. The footman was the first 'new blood' at the Abbey in some time. The rest of the staff were either long-term employees or locals who had some passing acquaintance with the others before entering service. They had all tried to engage him in some way, but Lewis seemed determined to remain aloof even when in their midst as at the table. Only Anna persisted.

"He's shy," was the explanation Anna had suggested to John when they'd discussed Lewis at home.

"He's a snob," John had replied.

Now Lewis met Anna's friendly remark with a dispassionate countenance. "I am in service at Downton Abbey," he said without inflection. "It was my duty to act."

"And I suppose if you weren't working here, you wouldn't have lifted a finger?" Andy said, with a disparaging look at his colleague.

Lewis ignored him.

Bates gave Anna an _I told you so_ look.

"Well, it wasn't _your_ duty," Barrow said, addressing Daniel Ryder. "But you certainly played your part." They had worked side by side on the bucket brigade.

"That was good of you," Mrs. Carson said amiably, casting an approving glance at the man beside her.

"All hands in a crisis," Ryder responded modestly. "Fortunately Mr. Molesley knew the way. I'd have been lost in the trees otherwise."

"Mr. Molesley was there!" Miss Baxter looked up alertly at this news.

"And carried buckets with the best of them," Barrow told her expansively.

"He was there to the last dying ember," Ryder added. "And went off to school this morning with the scent of smoke about him and quite exhausted."

A brilliant smile lit Miss Baxter's face at these words, but she asked for no further details, only quietly treasuring this information.

"I thought Mrs. Hutton would be with us," Mrs. Carson said. There was an empty place beside Miss Baxter, as though the housekeeper's presence had been expected.

"She's not feeling well," Miss Baxter said absently.

"She's enjoying her misfortune," Mrs. Patmore corrected her, coming in from the kitchen. "It was a fire, she survived, and no one's blaming her for it. Any more. Yet she can't seem to get out of bed." The cook had been sympathetic enough in the middle of the night, but her patience had begun to run thin when Daisy had to take tea up to the woman in mid-morning.

"Do they know what caused it then?" Mrs. Carson asked, looking around the table.

"It's too early to say, but it started at the front of the house, well away from the kitchen," Barrow said. "Well. Andy, Lewis, we have work to make up." As he spoke, the butler got to his feet and everyone else did so as well.

"They know a little more than that," Bates murmured to Anna, as they moved together toward the door. "His Lordship told me this morning that they suspect foul play. There's to be a special investigator from London." He spoke quietly, intending this information for her ears only, though the alarmed look on her face might have betrayed the seriousness of his communication to anyone who saw it.

Barrow, who was making annotations in the day book a few feet away, did not see Anna's face but his hearing was acute from long cultivated practice and he got the gist of what Bates had said. _Foul play_. Well, that presented a puzzlement. Barrow was not an admirer of Mr. Branson, resenting him for his breaching of the barrier between upstairs and down. Even more irritating was that the former chauffeur had done this by marrying Lady Sybil. Until Master George had come into his life, Barrow had felt an emotional affinity for only one member of the Crawley family and that had been Lady Sybil, one of the few people he had ever met who had shown him a measure of human kindness. She had been too good for Tom Branson. Though he had no great regard for the man, still Barrow could not imagine anyone _hating_ him, hating him enough to burn down.

And then Barrow remembered something. _Mr. Branson knew_. Had he not come into the butler's pantry several weeks earlier with that odd query about strangers at Downton? _He knew there was someone after him._ Well, it would be interesting to see how that played out.

 **The Family and the Constable**

Sergeant Willis returned to Downton Abbey shortly after lunch. He looked harried and as though he had not eaten yet that day. Criminal activity within his jurisdiction was fairly low key and almost never a matter for His Lordship's direct involvement. The constable had hardly sat down since he'd been roused from his bed at dawn. For all his exertions, however, he had little of import to convey.

"There was petrol liberally splashed about," he said, checking his notebook.

Robert, Cora, Mary, Henry, and Tom were all present for this report. They received him in the library.

"We knew that," Henry murmured impatiently. His usually imperturbable manner had all but disappeared with the conflagration at the cottage.

"I found a few empty petrol cans on the other side of the garage and took them in for finger-printing. He didn't make any effort to hide them, whoever it is."

"And who _is_ it?" Mary demanded impatiently.

The sergeant shrugged. "I don't know, my lady. But it wasn't some lad down in the village. Any mother's son who came home smelling of petrol - and he would have to have done - would have been found out by now. There's more to this than a simple prank gone bad. It's going to take some investigating to unravel."

"I've made arrangements for a forensics specialist to come up from London," Robert informed him. "We ought to get some explicit answers about the nature of the crime, at least. And maybe that will lead us somewhere."

Some men might have felt slighted at this appeal to expertise. But Sergeant Willis came over relieved. He felt comfortable policing local shenanigans and petty crime. But arson was a little beyond his professional competence, if not technically outside his jurisdiction.

"In the meantime, Mr. Branson, if you could make up a list of anyone with whom you've had words in the past four months, anyone who might have felt hard done by by you, even if there was no grounds to feel so. Or if you can think of any other circumstance that might have prompted someone to lash out at you like this." The sergeant sounded slightly apologetic, both for imposing on Tom at such a moment and in even suggesting, however obliquely, that there might have been a reason behind this attack.

"Of course," Tom said immediately, though as he had done much the same thing for weeks he did not see much promise for success in it.

"Oh. There was one other thing." Sergeant Willis rummaged in the satchel he had with him. "This. I found it down the road a bit."

He held out a battered metal plate. Tom took it from him almost gently.

"What is it?" Robert asked, unsettled by the look of devastation on Tom's face.

"The name plate for our home. Shamrock Cottage," Tom said hollowly. "They made it at the blacksmith's shop. I'd only just put it up."

 **Mary and Henry**

"How are the children?" Henry had begun the elaborate process of undressing Mary. It was a ritual that almost always cultivated desire, but Henry had found that taking proper care with Mary's jewellery and handling the fussy little buttons carefully could thwart it as well. He was having the devil of a time with the clasp of her necklace.

"They are all well," Mary said, holding perfectly still to help him. "George has been excited all day. He was a bit cross at having slept through the fire. Now he wants to be a fireman when he grows up. Somehow being the Earl of Grantham pales in comparison."

Henry got the necklace off at last and nodded with satisfaction. "I noticed that this afternoon. I think helping to fight the fire is the first time I've done something that rivaled Barrow's achievements in his eyes." He said this lightly. He was not jealous of George's affection for Barrow, though he did not understand it.

"Not so," Mary assured him, with a sympathetic look.

"You know it is," Henry said more warmly. "Fathers have it hard trying to compete with the butlers in this family."

Mary gave him a genuine smile at this. Henry seemed bemused bytimes by her relationship with Carson, but he was wise enough not to challenge it and she appreciated that about him. "George took a distressing interest in the gory details of the fire," she said, drawing back to the subject. "I told him to stop as dwelling on it might upset Sybbie."

"Did it?"

"Not that I noticed. Sybbie has Sybil's courage. And Tom's. But two fires in such a short life! And the cottage was her home. I would be devastated if Downton Abbey burned to the ground."

"It won't," Henry said calmly and gave her a one-armed hug.

"You don't know that," she said soberly. " _Edith_ almost brought it down all on her own."

"You're exaggerating," Henry said with a laugh, letting her go again. He hadn't been at Downton at the time, but he'd heard the story.

"Only slightly. And that was an accident. Now we have to worry about someone doing it on purpose."

"No one would do that."

"Well, I would have thought no one would set Shamrock Cottage on fire either. Henry." Her demeanor became more serious. "Why didn't you say anything about what was happening with Tom?" It was the question that had been festering in her mind all day.

"Tom asked me not to," he said promptly. "And ... there was nothing to tell. They were such petty incidents. We thought it must be one of the local lads having a laugh.'

"But things happened in York, too."

"I didn't know about the jacket. And after the grit in the gasline I persuaded Tom to go to the police. I'm not trying to malign Tom. We just couldn't - neither of us - imagine that _pranks_ would lead to _danger_."

"But ... he really has _no_ idea?" This seemed almost impossible to Mary. "If it were me, I'd have a list of suspects as long as my arm."

 **Tom**

"Goodnight, Daddy."

Tom held his daughter close for a long moment, kissed her, and then tucked her in. "Goodnight, darling," he said.

From the doorway of the nursery, he looked back and saw her waiting for this and smiling at him. This had become their routine at Shamrock Cottage. He smiled back.

His mood was heavier on entering his own room at the other end of the gallery. Here he was, back at Downton Abbey, and not at all happy about it. He had so much on his mind.

Sybbie was doing well. She'd been terrified last night at the fire, naturally. And she'd been anxious that morning, too. But once she'd seen him and Mrs. Hutton, too - the housekeeper descending to the nursery for a brief visit - then Sybbie became more herself again. She bore bravely the news that their house had been destroyed and with it all of her things. It was a painful thing for Tom to see his dear child materially reduced to just the clothes on her back.

 _Now, wait a minute_. He'd given himself a good shake at that thought. Sybbie _had_ lost all her things to be sure, and some of them were dear to her, but she had hardly been cast out in the streets. Even before the fire had peaked, she was comfortably ensconced in her old bed in the familiar surroundings of Downton's nursery.

"I've been living here too long," Tom murmured, unbuttoning his shirt. The family's perspective on things had seeped into his being. And that was no small thing.

He was grateful, very grateful to his parents-in-law for the shelter of Downton Abbey. He had fled to this sanctuary once before, when he had left Ireland for the last time only steps ahead of the authorities. They hadn't been quite so welcoming then, Robert and Cora, but they'd taken him in. He had not been proud of himself in that moment, though he'd talked it through with Sybil beforehand. It was different this time. Cora and Robert had drawn them in with open arms, the relief in their faces when they had met at the fire a palpable manifestation of the love they extended to Tom and Sybbie both.

Coexistent with this love and concern there was, however, a slight undercurrent of resentment from Robert. It encompassed a bewilderment about what he thought Tom's misplaced discretion, but it was grounded in Robert's ongoing conviction that Tom should never have left the Abbey in the first place.

Well, Tom wasn't going to second-guess himself on that. Nor would he surrender the autonomy he had regained in moving to the cottage. Their stay here would be only temporary and he would resist what impositions he could. Tomorrow he would spend the day with his daughter. Though Nanny had dug out some of Sybbie's old clothes, she needed to be wholly re-fitted and Tom was determined that he, not Cora or Mary or Nanny, would see to this. And on Monday she would return to the village school, no matter what the Earl of Grantham thought of that. Tom would take her there himself.

He had to.

For alongside the sorrow he felt for their losses and the discouragement at having to return to Downton Abbey, there was as well a powerful current of guilt. He _had_ , however inadvertently, let a risk to himself, Sybbie, and Mrs. Hutton grow unhindered. He had _not_ done all he could to protect his family. And that they had escaped unscathed in the moment of danger was not his doing but that of the perpetrator who had chosen _this time_ not to kill one or all of them. They would not venture forth to live on their own again until this situation was resolved, and not because Robert said so, but because Tom, now awakened to the hazard, would not make that mistake again.

The guilt he felt for his decisions in this matter was great but not all-consuming, for there was another layer to it that he was only yet discerning. Before he had married Sybil and come to understand her family as individuals who were, at a fundamental level, not very different from himself, he had held them in contempt as part of a class he did not recognize as legitimate. He no longer thought that way, was that man no longer, and was glad of it, for his own sake as much as anyone else's. He had been blind, in a way.

Standing in the cold and darkness the night before, watching the cottage burn, he had been drawn back dramatically to Ireland and his last political act there. _Those places are different for me_ , he had told the Granthams in explanation for his involvement. But the crumbling timbers of his own home ablaze had opened to him a fresh perspective on this, too. Surely a home with a family beneath its roof was a home like any other.


	31. Chapter 31

16

 **DOWNTON ABBEY**

 **Episode 7. Chapter 3.**

 **Molesley, the Masons, and Mrs. Patmore**

 _ **Saturday September 25, 1926**_

On Saturday afternoon in the lull that fell between the end of lunch and the beginning of tea, Mr. Molesley came to Downton to meet with Mr. Mason and Daisy. Trying to arrange a moment in his busy schedule that coincided with a free space in that of the assistant cook's and then coordinating these with a convenient time for Mr. Mason had eluded him. It was Miss Baxter who suggested the solution of Saturday at Downton.

He had stared in wonder at her. "Why didn't I think of that?" he said, beaming.

And so Miss Baxter had spoken to Daisy and he had gone round Yew Tree farm mid-week to see Mr. Mason. He found the farmer a little hesitant to go up to the Abbey without an invitation from anyone there, but later, after he'd discussed it with Daisy, he sent word of his agreement. When they sat down together on Saturday, shortly after midday, Miss Baxter joined them, and after an intense exchange about the fire two nights earlier, Molesley turned to business.

"Miss Baxter is ... ah ... assisting me with this enterprise," he explained unconvincingly.

"Oh, aye," Mr. Mason responded wryly.

Molesley took a deep breath. "I wanted to speak to you - to the two of you - because of a project I've undertaken with my class at school. A commemoration project. Of the men of Downton who gave them lives in the Great War and whose names are inscribed on the cenotaph in the village."

"What kind of a project?" Daisy asked, curious.

Molesley could hardly contain his enthusiasm, yet it was tempered by the undercurrent of uneasiness stemming from his own war record. "I want to put on a pageant of sorts on the eleventh of November. About the individual men. Tell their stories. The children are very passionate about the idea. A few of them had fathers who died. The names are familiar to them. They want - we want - to keep their stories alive in the village, not just in their own families. And I'm seeking permission from relatives - parents and wives - to do so." He paused and then added gently, "I would like to ask your permission, Mr. Mason, Daisy, to tell William's story."

Silence descended on them.

Mr. Mason came over very grave, almost melancholic. He had known a lot of loss in his day - four children who had died in infancy or childhood, his wife, and then William in the war. It was not that he mourned William more than any of the others, but there was a special poignancy to his passing for he was the last. With William gone, Albert Mason was truly alone. Or would have been without the gift of Daisy. He raised his eyes to hers.

"What do you think?"

Daisy stirred uneasily. To the world and to Mr. Mason she had been the love of William's life and his wife. But in her heart she knew differently and always felt a fraud when obliged to confront the matter. But he had put it to her, so she considered.

"What do you mean by his story?" she asked finally.

The school teacher leaned forward eagerly across the trestle table. "That's a good question. I ... we ... want to tell about him joining up and why, and what he did ... in the war, and ... how ... how he died. How he gave his life honourably ... in protecting a fellow soldier."

"Mr. Matthew," Daisy said quietly. "Only William didn't die in battle. He died here.'

"A few of Downton's men died in England, in hospital, from their wounds. That doesn't diminish their sacrifice or their story."

"It does not," Mr. Mason agreed firmly. Again he looked to Daisy with an inquiring eye.

She met his gaze. "I trust Mr. Molesley," she said slowly. "He'll make sure our William's story is told respectfully. And properly. And ... it may help?" Daisy had a tendency to end her remarks with a questioning intonation, as she did now.

Mr. Mason's countenance was transformed listening to her as a natural reticence gave way unconsciously to open affection. Observing this, Molesley and Miss Baxter exchanged appreciative looks. The bond forged between the farmer and his daughter-in-law was heart-warming indeed.

"All right then," Mr. Mason said, turning to Molesley. "How does it work? How will you learn William's story?"

"Well, that's part of the project. Each pupil has selected a name from the cenotaph. With your agreement ...," he pulled a folded paper from his pocket and consulted it, "... Mary Andover will come along to talk to you about William."

"A girl?" Mr. Mason was taken aback.

"What's wrong with that?" Daisy said immediately. "A girl can tell a story as well as a boy. And we should all remember, not just men."

Her spirited response elicited a laugh from Mr. Mason. "Then I will look forward to meeting Miss Mary Andover," he said.

"Me, too," Daisy added.

Molesley's eyes rested on her for a moment. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you both." And then he grinned at Miss Baxter.

"Are you going round to all the families?" Daisy asked, as they all stood up.

"I am. I think it ... proper ... to let parents or a wife make the decision. Not everyone want to ... or can... share their grief. I respect that and so do the children. We'll read out all the names, of course."

"I'm proud of my son and what he did," Mr. Mason said. "I'm proud to have his story told."

"Well. Good."

Mr. Mason's attention shifted, his eyes drawn to the kitchen door, beyond which the sounds of Mrs. Patmore at work could be heard.

Molesley himself turned to Miss Baxter. "I'll talk to Mrs. Patmore now, while I'm here."

"What?" Daisy spoke a little more sharply than she had meant to do.

Mr. Mason reacted immediately, withdrawing a bit and then looking for his hat. "I'll be on my way," he said.

"Don't go," Daisy said quickly.

"Oh, I've lots to do at the farm," he said. "I'll be off." He nodded to them all and stepped into the passage.

Daisy was torn. She had hoped that Mr. Mason might have a word with Mrs. Patmore. To her knowledge they had not seen each other in weeks and she thought this an unfortunate thing. But she was distracted by Mr. Molesley.

"About what?" she asked, though it was none of her business. "About this?"

"Yes," he said lightly, missing her apprehension.

Daisy's eyes went round, but she said nothing. Miss Baxter excused herself to return to her duties. And Molesley ventured into the kitchen.

Buoyed by his success with the Masons, Molesley approached Mrs. Patmore with greater ease. As she almost always did, Mrs. Patmore greeted him affably. When he wasn't under her feet annoying her, she didn't mind him at all. She did glance over his shoulder, though, as if expecting someone else.

He gave her the same preamble he had delivered in the servants' hall. "I realize that your nephew, Archibald Philpotts, was not a Downton man," he said solemnly, "but the memorial to him is here. And one of the boys in my class, Mark Wallace, asked if he might tell _his_ story, so that he wouldn't be left out."

Molesley was very pleased by Mark's request. The boy was one of his quieter students, a more contemplative sort who seldom spoke unless spoken to. That he had sought out the discreet memorial in the stone wall near the cenotaph and had the curiosity to pursue it pleased Molesley no end. And it seemed to him that Mrs. Patmore would welcome the attention thus paid to her nephew who was not, after all, part of Downton's war. He looked at her expectantly.

It had been a while since Mrs. Patmore had thought deeply about Archie. Every time she crossed the green she glanced his way and remembered the lively boy she had known and admired the monument that His Lordship had so generously created. And she was very much looking forward to showing it to her sister Kate, Archie's mother. But though the black cloud that hung over Archie's war record might be ignored day to day it could not be denied. All she needed was for that to resurface, especially on Armistice Day when Kate would be here.

"No," she said, surprising herself with the temperateness of her tone. She certainly didn't _feel_ temperate. "Thank you, Mr. Molesley, but ... he was my sister's boy, Archie was, and she'll be here for the ceremony on the eleventh. And I don't know that she'll want to ... relive his story."

He was disappointed, but accepted it with grace. "Of course," he said quietly. "I'll ... I'll explain to Mark. He ... took an interest. But ... he'll understand.'

"I'm sorry, Mr. Molesley." She _was_ sorry for him and for Archie, who had a story that couldn't be told, even though he was as deserving in her eyes as any other young man. "It's a fine idea."

He shrugged good-naturedly. "It's not for everyone. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore." Nodding politely to her, he took his leave.

 **Elsie and Charlie**

 _ **Tuesday September 28, 1926**_

"We'll walk up to the Abbey with you."

It amused Elsie that he used a plural pronoun. Her Charlie had gone sixty-odd years without a dog. In the three decades that she had known him he'd never expressed an interest in having a dog. And then overnight he had become almost inseparable from the glossy collie they'd adopted from a local rescue organization.

"I'm very lucky," Elsie responded, welcoming the company of Charlie and Shep. "Bring your umbrella. It's going to rain this morning."

They set off up the gravel path that would take them to the Abbey grounds, walking closely together but not arm in arm or hand in hand. Such circumspection was a reflection of habit, but it also had the effect of investing greater meaning in subtler signs - a look, a smile, a quiet word - when they were in the company of others and made such gestures all the more eloquent when they did indulge in them.

These mornings Charlie usually kept to home, burying himself in the Crawley family papers. After lunch he would make his way to the dower house where he would meet up with Daniel Ryder and together they would spend a few hours with Her Ladyship. Monday mornings followed a different routine with Charlie tramping the estate with His Lordship. But today was Tuesday and he was shaking his habit for another reason.

"Mr. Barrow wants a word before he flits off to the continent," Charlie said, sounding disdainful.

"I wish _I_ were flitting off to the continent," Elsie said airily, aware that he might only be half listening to her, if that.

"Imagine _me_ standing in for _him_ ," he went on indignantly.

Elsie cast a sidelong glance at him. "You didn't have to agree to do it," she said mischievously.

He grimaced but said nothing. His Lordship had asked, though he'd made it clear that it was Lady Mary's idea, and that had been that. Charlie had never yet denied the uppity minx anything, as Elsie well knew, even if his pride might suffer a little in the accommodation. She decided to let him off the hook.

"I'm worried about Mr. Branson," she said, changing the subject. "Getting out of the Abbey was good for him. And for Miss Sybbie. It must be hard for him to return to that."

"I beg your pardon!"

She made an exasperated sound. "Oh, I'm not insulting your precious family. You know exactly what I mean. For all that you love the stone and mortar of Downton Abbey, you enjoy having your own home, don't you?"

"It is _our_ home," he corrected her.

" _Our_ home, then. Well, Mr. Branson only wanted his own home as well."

"It's only that you make Downton sound like a prison as far as Mr. Branson is concerned. Anyone should be grateful to reside within those walls, _especially_ someone who was not born to it."

She ought to have known better. Charlie was never going to be wholly reconciled to Mr. Branson's social elevation and would take His Lordship's side in any dispute. She changed direction again.

"Your Mr. Ryder gave a good account of himself at the fire the other night. Or so Mr. Barrow says and you know how sparing he is with praise." Quite as sparing as her Mr. Carson was, though she did not say this.

"Mr. Ryder _is_ a good man," he said, a little testily. "I keep telling you."

She was having no luck with conversation this morning at all. And yet there was something different about his irritability on this subject. She considered him for a moment - his furrowed brow, his agitation. "What is it?"

But he made a dismissive gesture and then shook himself as though to banish his slight _malaise_. "It's nothing," he said with the shadow of a smile.

But she knew better. "Did you not enjoy your afternoon with Mr. Ryder at the cricket pitch on Sunday?"

"Yes. Of course I did.'

She thought about it some more. "I've not seen him at the cottage recently. Why don't you invite him round for supper. Tomorrow night?" She did not lightly court the younger man's company, but she was beginning to wonder if Charlie's mood was not somehow connected to Daniel Ryder.

He hesitated before responding. "No. I think not."

"Have you fallen out?"

"No."

"Charlie."

"I asked him on Sunday for any night this week," he said abruptly. "And he said he'd tied himself up with _Molesley_."

"Mr. Molesley?" That did surprise Elsie. Of course, Mr. Ryder boarded with the schoolteacher but her impression from conversations about the arrangmeent was that the acquaintance remained a cursory one.

" _Molesley_ has some special historical project he's working on at the school and Daniel has agreed to help him with it."

"Well ..." Elsie was nonplussed by this. "That's very nice of him. Isn't it?"

Charlie came to an abrupt halt. Both Elsie and Shep, caught unawares, looked at him quizzically. He was standing there very stiffly and his face wore an expression of indignation that she had one or two occasions. _Maids in the dining room!_ sprang to mind.

"Mr. Ryder is _my_ assistant," he said imperiously and then, when Elsie, not quite convinced of the direness of the situation, continued to look on in bemusement, he added, "How would _you_ like to be passed over for _Mr. Molesley_?"

A wave of empathy for him and his wounded vanity swept over her, but words failed. Instead she reached out and took his hand.

 **Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Carson**

 _ **Tuesday September 28, 1926**_

"I've got a problem."

Mrs. Patmore came into the housekeeper's office at mid-morning, as she often did, but without the tea that was her usual excuse for a pause at that time of day. And she closed the door behind her.

Mrs. Carson, who had been meditating on her husband's unhappiness and who had already rebuked herself twice for her distraction, rolled her eyes a bit at the cook's declaration. But she put down the pencil with which she had been adding up expenses and turned in her chair to face Mrs. Patmore, who plunked herself down in a chair by the small table. It was the housekeeper's lot to listen to everyone's woes and to sort them as best she could.

"Has Daisy done something?"

This derailed Mrs. Patmore for a moment. "I wouldn't need your help to deal with _Daisy_!" she snapped. She looked affronted at the very thought.

Seeing that the cook did indeed look worried, Mrs. Carson softened her manner. "What is it?" she asked, for the second time that morning.

"It's Mr. Molesley."

"Mr. Molesley!" _Again_?!

"Yes. Why do you say it like that?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"He's got some notion for a pageant with the children at school..."

The housekeeper managed to remain stoic at this revelation. Hadn't she already heard this, too?

"... about commemorating the war dead of Downton on Armistice Day." Mrs. Patmore explained at some length. "And he's asked me if one of pupils can tell Archie's story."

"Oh, dear." Mrs. Carson immediately understood how that could be problematic.

"Yes. And I said no. Of course. If Mr. Molesley knew the story ... and I wonder that he doesn't ..."

"He wasn't working here when ... when Mr. Lang ... was indiscreet," Mrs. Carson reminded her.

What a terrible moment that had been.

Mr. Lang, while serving as His Lordship's valet during the war, had drawn Mrs. Patmore's sympathy. In an act of kindness, she had confided in him the truth of her dear nephew, Archie, shot for cowardice, in order to comfort Lang, who suffered grievous mental and emotional anguish as a result of his own service in the trenches. Then the valet, oblivious to the sensitivity of this information and wholly absorbed in his own woes, had related it to a full table of servants over dinner while making a related point. Mrs. Patmore had been in tears for days.

"And ...," the housekeeper continued, "Mr. Carson came down very heavily on the staff in the aftermath. He read them the riot act on the absolute necessity of discretion in the matter."

Making reference to Mr. Carson in a conversation with Mrs. Patmore about her nephew was in itself a potentially fraught act. The cook and the former butler had fallen out rather seriously over the question of whether Archie might be included in the list of names on the Downton war memorial. In one of their more memorable disagreements, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, as she had then been, had not seen eye to eye on this, he refusing out of hand to permit the name of a 'coward' to stand with the others. It had not really been his decision, as the War Department had strict guidelines in the matter. But Mr. Carson had been unnecessarily frank about his personal views and Mrs. Patmore had had a hard time forgiving him.

"I didn't know that."

"Well, all that to say that it is likely Mr. Molesley never _did_ hear about Archie, from gossiping servants anyway. You were saying?"

"Right. Um, well, if Mr. Molesley knew about Archie he of course wouldn't want to mention him anyway." Mrs. Patmore's tone became a little belligerent at this, as though Mr. Molesley _had_ rejected her nephew. "But ... the thing is ... I'm just afraid it will all get dredged up again, and my sister's coming and she's never known the full story." Her face crumpled in anguish. "And I don't want her to find out, certainly not from someone blurting it out."

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Carson said again, seeing Mrs. Patmore's point.

"And ... but ... if Mr. Molesley goes ahead with his play or pageant or whatever it is, and Archie _isn't_ mentioned or given any notice, then Kate may wonder about why he's been excluded. I can say it's because he's not really from Downton, but ... oh, I don't know!"

At this point Mrs. Carson wished they _did_ have some tea. The habit of it, if not the actual beverage itself, was a comfort in such moments. And she felt the cook's despair. This appeared to be a problem that did indeed elude resolution.

"I'm afraid I don't know what to say, Mrs. Patmore. Except that I've not heard a word about ... your nephew ... since that time, except from you. And Mr. Molesley will respect your wishes. And ... you've got a little time to think about how you might manage the situation with your sister. I'll think on it, too."

Mrs. Patmore's shoulders heaved. "It's just ..."

"I know."

They sat in silence for a long minute.

"I ought to have brought in tea," Mrs. Patmore said at length.

"It's no matter."

"And how are things with you?" It was an effort on Mrs. Patmore's part to ask, absorbed as she was by her own woes.

"Oh, well enough."

"Tell me." Mrs. Patmore felt she had shared a heavy burden with her friend and wanted to make a gesture of reciprocation. "Is there a problem in the love nest?"

Mrs. Carson's considerable sympathy for Mrs. Patmore's dilemma all but evaporated. "You're very aggravating," she said curtly, her eyes blazing.

Usually Mrs. Patmore responded to the housekeeper's exasperation with an impudent grin, but in this moment she had asked the question reflexively, rather than deliberately, and Mrs. Carson _had_ seemed distracted when the cook had interrupted her. So now she simply said, "Is there?"

"No," Mrs. Carson said firmly. "Although ... Mr. Carson is a bit down."

"Why? He's about to take over at Downton again. Isn't that what he dreams about?"

"It's not that. It's ... it has something to do with Mr. Ryder. And I'm a bit worried about it."

"Not that again!" Mrs. Patmore clearly did not think that this matter resonated with the same pathos as her predicament which, Mrs. Carson would have agreed, it did not. "He's a nice man! A very nice man." Mrs. Patmore paused. "I wish Daisy could see that."

Mrs. Carson just shook her head.

"If you're that bothered about it," Mrs. Patmore went on, "why don't you do something?"

"Like what?"

"Talk to him."

"Talk to him?"

"You say that with surprise. Yet I've never known you to shrink from a frank discussion of a problem before."

The words were out of Mrs. Patmore's mouth before she realized that that was not quite the case. They stared at each other and both suddenly came over a little uncomfortable, the memory of a very awkward situation that had unfolded in the weeks prior to the Carsons' wedding coming immediately to both minds.

"Um." Mrs. Patmore hauled herself to her feet. "I'd best get back to the kitchen." She paused at the door. "Thank you for listening."

"I'm sure it will sort itself out," Mrs. Carson said kindly. Then, turning back to her desk, she pushed aside that unsettling memory and picked up her pencil again. Mrs. Patmore's problem was a puzzlement and she didn't know what could be done about it. But perhaps it _was_ time to try for some honesty with Mr. Ryder.

 **Cora and Mary**

 _ **Tuesday September 28, 1926**_

On those rare evenings when Robert was not at home and Violet was not visiting, a more informal practice prevailed over every aspect of the evening upstairs. With Robert in London for the first of his engagements with Ambassador Houghton, Cora set a relaxed tone and Tom, Mary, and Henry embraced it.

Tom, glad to be spared for an evening of Robert's subtle pique, was more himself.

"What do you say to a game of billiards?" he asked Henry.

"As though you've not exhausted everything you had to say working together all day," Mary said before her husband could reply.

She was teasing and Henry knew it. He frowned as though confused. "We don't talk when we're playing billiards."

"Don't be at it all night," she warned him. "I can't get out of my dress without you."

A slow, smouldering smile wafted across his face. "I wouldn't miss that."

"I don't think Cora and I needed to hear that," Tom said, amused.

The two men departed and Cora and Mary withdrew to the sitting room. Lewis settled them with coffee and then they were alone.

"We'll have to sit down sometime over the next few days and work out a schedule for the car," Cora said. "Thursday is Stark's last day."

Mary huffed impatiently. "Why is Papa being stubborn about this? We _need_ two drivers for our two cars."

"Well," Cora said, maintaining an even tone, "Papa and I believe we can reconcile _our_ schedules. I have my regular meetings and some social occasions and there will be a few special trips, too. And ... you're not _very_ busy these days."

Mary scowled. "I hope you'll take a private car to the _workhouse_. We can't have the Earl of Grantham's car idling out of _that_. Are you still determined go to there?"

"I am," Cora said. "And don't be so snobbish. It doesn't become you. Besides, you took the car and chauffeur to visit Anna an prison, as you should have done. No one objected to that."

It was clear that to Mary this was no comparison at all. "It was a sign of support for Anna. Perhaps you can use Isobel and Dickie's car, if they're still going with you."

"They are. And this is a sign of support, too, for Mr. Chamberlain and his reforms." Cora was exasperated by her daughter's intransigence, but had other things on her mind. "Don't get out of sorts, Mary. I've been wanting to talk to you."

"About what?"

There it was - a hint of defensiveness. So there _was_ something the matter. Cora proceeded carefully. "About you. What's going on?"

"Nothing."

The closed door. Cora was not at all surprised. "You're as bad as your grandmother with your reticence," she said. It was not a reprimand, but more an observation tinged with sadness.

And it struck a sensitive note with Mary, who had been more aware of Granny's obstinacy in that way of late. But still she resisted. "Granny. But not Papa?"

"You're deflecting again," Cora said patiently. "But no, your papa is more open about what troubles him."

"Were you thinking of anything in particular?"

"No. It's just that you don't seem ... happy. Or even content. I know marriage and motherhood aren't everything, not for some women. But they _are_ great things and you have the best of them. Yet there's something lacking. If I knew what it was, I'd address it directly. But I don't. That's why I'm asking you."

They used to be allies, before the war, in the great campaigns of a society mother to secure good marriages for her daughters. But even then it was with Mary an alliance of purpose, not of camaraderie. They loved each other, but were not soul mates. For Cora, that had been Sybil, despite the fact that Sybil went her own way in society and marriage.

"You're not wholly wrong," Mary said tentatively, surprising Cora with this concession. "But I don't think you can help. I _do_ have a plan and I'm working on it."

How like Mary to want to rely on no one. "You'll let me know if I can do anything?"

"Yes, Mama. I know I can always count on you."

It was as much as Cora could hope for. It was not so very long ago that she had seen both of her daughters married to very fine men and thought that her worries in this area were over. And now both of them had troubles. She sighed and hoped that Robert would have better luck with Edith.

 **Robert and Edith**

 _ **Tuesday September 28, 1926**_

"Well, it's been a few years since I've eaten here," Robert said, standing to greet Edith as she was escorted to their table by an immaculately tailored _maitre d'_. _She is beautiful_ , he thought. This was not a revelation for him, but rather a reality that struck him every time his eyes fell on his daughter.

"I've dined here a few times in recent months," Edith said, looking around the grand dining room of the Carlton.

They were enjoying a late dinner together, Robert having had his diplomatic engagement and Edith after an evening with her editor.

"Sometimes I wonder who you are," Robert said almost in awe. "A decade ago all your mother and I hoped for was that you would marry well. But look at you. All of you. Mary - the agent of Downton, Sybil - a nurse, and you - owner and editor of a successful magazine. How limited my expectations were."

"Dearest Papa." Edith's eyes were shining. "Strictly speaking, I didn't make my own success. I inherited it from Michael."

"That sounds like the Edith-before-the-war," her father said a little curtly. "You've proven your mettle in the publishing business, Edith. For all its glamour, it is a cut-throat world. Don't diminish your own success."

Edith glowed.

"How are Tom and Sybbie?" she asked, not to turn the conversation but because the question had been preying on her mind all day. "Is there any news?"

Robert brought her up to date, which did not take very long as there was nothing much to say. "It's all a puzzlement," he finished. "I'm glad to have them home again though," he added, as though Tom and Sybbie had returned from a second transatlantic pilgrimage of several months duration, rather than from a short stint just down the road.

"How odd that the police have turned up nothing," Edith said. "Have you not thought of hiring a private investigator, as you offered to do when ... Michael... disappeared in Germany?" Edith could speak with equanimity about Michael Gregson in connection with the publishing company, but any allusion to his violent end at the hands of National Socialist thugs in Munich still had a deeply unsettling affect.

Robert reached for her hand and held it for a moment. "I brought it up," he said, "but Tom vetoed it. I don't know why." The aggravation Robert had felt toward his son-in-law since the fire reared its head. "I was thinking of doing it anyway."

"Papa. You can't."

"I _have_ gotten a man down from Scotland Yard to examine the arson evidence. We'll see what comes of that."

They perused the Carlton's rich menu for a minute. "How are things at Brancaster?" Robert was trying quite deliberately to put his irritation behind him. And he _was_ interested in the answer to his question, and not only because Cora had reminded him to ask it.

Edith knew precisely to what he was referring. "Bertie and I are speaking," she said carefully and clearly with an inclination to say no more. Robert did not press her.

After they had ordered, they both made an effort to be more cheerful.

"How was _your_ evening?" Edith asked.

Robert looked a little perplexed. "I'm not quite certain. It was an informal affair - cocktails, earnest discussion, but nothing official. I made the rounds, listened attentively, drew some connections here and there between different parties on different issues."

"But that sounds marvelous, Papa."

He shrugged. " _And_ diverted Lord Ranskill from a very determined effort to expel Oswald Mosley from the party."

" _Oswald Mosley_." Edith's eyes widened in incredulity. "You _do_ move in some strange circles!"

"He wasn't expected, but he has tremendous connections. But Ranskill is on the Lords' Committee on banking and he went apoplectic when Mosley raised the question of nationalizing the banks." Robert paused. "Or would have done had I not quietly cast some aspersions on Mosley's mental health."

"Was that ethical, Papa?"

"Have you read _The Times_ on his so-called _Birmingham Proposals_? Absolutely crackers."

Edith laughed.

"To answer your original question, I enjoy mingling with the decision-makers of the day - if not the crackpots - and it is pleasant to engage in intelligent conversation. But I'm beggared if I can see how anything ever gets done."

"Diplomacy is time consuming," Edith said wisely. "You can hardly have expected an Anglo-American-German _rapprochement_ to emerge fully formed from an exchange over cocktails."

Their conversation continued casually and on various pleasant subjects over the different courses of their dinner. One safe subject was the children. Though Robert had seen Marigold less than two weeks earlier, Edith had many stories to recount of her daughter. In his turn, Robert related tales of George and Stephen, and what he knew about Sybbie, including what he considered to be the abominable state of her education.

"Papa." Edith spoke firmly. "You say that only because she attends the village school. She couldn't possibly be learning less there than the three of us did from our dreadful governess.'

Robert ignored this, turning instead to a point Edith had made about the dearth of children of Marigold's age in immediate proximity to Brancaster Castle.

"She was never lonely at Downton."

"Of course not, with George and Sybbie."

Robert stared meaningfully at her and Edith frowned.

"What did you mean by pressing Bertie about his _duty_ as the Marquis of Hexham to produce an heir?"

"I thought that wasn't what set him off," Robert said, a little guardedly.

"It wasn't. But why would you say such a thing?"

"Because it's true. It is one of the fundamental responsibilities of the position."

"Who's having this child?" Edith said, exasperated. "Not him. But Papa, Bertie must be the man he is. The responsibilities of Brancaster are immense. And Bertie is certainly far more conscientious than his cousin Peter was. And," she added, returning to the original point, "having a baby wouldn't solve the problem of playmates for Marigold, not for a few years anyway. Maybe never. Obviously I wasn't the answer to Mary's prayers."

Though he considered the issues under discussion serious enough, Robert said mischievously, "I didn't realize that Mary had ever prayed."

It was a joke they could both enjoy.

They decided against an after-dinner drink but did take coffee. The mood had shifted again and Robert could tell that Edith was working her way up to something. He waited patiently, expecting that she might at last be ready to confide in him about her troubles with Bertie. He was prepared to be supportive.

"Papa," she said at length, "what happened to the Drewes?"

Robert stared at her in astonishment for a full minute. He'd not thought of his former tenants in months, not since they'd departed from Yew Tree farm. He was very surprised that Edith should have wondered about them and said so.

"Well, they did leave in a hurry," she said. Edith did not have to add that they had done so at her behest, although it had been Robert who had formally asked them to go. He did not like to think of it.

"I just ... wanted to know," Edith said, somewhat lamely.

Robert decided to answer the question as directly as he could. "I wrote some letters on their behalf, seeking a tenancy for them on another estate." He had given the matter some consideration at the time, focusing on possibilities in counties at some distance from Yorkshire.

"And they got something?"

"I don't know," he said flatly.

Edith looked as though she regretted raising the subject. Robert certainly wished she had not. They both cast about for a change of topic. Edith found her way first.

"How is Granny?"

Robert sighed. It had started out as such a nice evening.


	32. Chapter 32

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **Episode 7. Chapter 4.**

 **Violet and Isobel**

 _ **Wednesday September 29, 1926**_

"Fire bells in the night. Surely that is one of the most dread sounds there is."

Violet and Isobel were having lunch together at the Dower House.

Though they were often at odds with each in matters of both principle and practice, Violet agreed heartily with her cousin on this.

"It's a miracle they all emerged unscathed," Isobel went on.

"Not a miracle," Violet corrected her. "God had nothing to do with it. It was the perpetrator himself, apparently, who roused Tom."

"That is very peculiar."

"Very."

"I was in a fire once. It broke out in the hospital where I worked outside of London during the war. The South African war. It was a stupid fire, started by an ambulatory patient casting a cigarette stub into a bin of discarded bandages to avoid a telling off by a nurse."

Violet raised her eyebrows inquiringly at this. She would not have been at all surprised to learn that Isobel had been the nurse policing the ward. Isobel ignored her.

"We had an evacuation plan, but some of the staff were new. It was chaos for a while. But no one suffered anything more than smoke inhalation, and not badly at that."

"You have had a life brimming with adventure!" Violet declared. "Wars, fires. And now a society dinner party, so I hear."

Isobel might have bristled a bit at Cousin Violet's ironic commentary on her life in this juxtaposition of war and a dinner party, but was distracted by a different aspect. "And how do you come to hear that? We've not told anyone yet."

"Well, you told the Grey boys and Amelia, didn't you? At that dinner at Cavenham?"

Isobel's bewilderment deepened. "I didn't know you were in communication with Dickie's sons," she said.

Violet favoured Isobel with an almost pitying smile. "The family were not the only ones privy to your announcement. The butler was there. And the footmen. And they talk to other servants who talk to others in their turn. Eventually everything comes to Denker. It's a very efficient network in its way and altogether more reliable than the telephone." She chuckled at the look of astonishment on Isobel's face and moved on.

"May I assume that you have secured the appropriate assistance for such an occasion?"

Recovering her poise swiftly, Isobel gave Violet a self-assured smile. "I took your advice and I believe we are in a position to make a success of it."

"I am very glad to hear it. Am I to be invited?"

Isobel's eyes went round. "Of course! What would a society dinner in this county be like without you!"

"Fortunately, I will never know," Violet said and then giggled.

Isobel laughed with her. "I hear that _you_ took a carriage ride in the park with Dr. Clarkson," she went on. "What prompted you to that?"

Violet's eyes twinkled, in part from fond remembrance of the occasion but also as it opened a new avenue with which to bedevil her cousin. "It was his idea."

"Goodness! That doesn't sound like him at all."

"Mmm. That's what he said of you."

Once more Isobel came over somewhat bewildered, but she brushed by it. "You seem to be spending a great deal of time with Dr. Clarkson of late."

"Are you jealous?" Violet asked.

Isobel only looked on the other woman for a long moment. "It is so very good to see you again, Cousin Violet."

With an expression of immense satisfaction at this remark, Violet drew herself up and said, "Then I must be doing something wrong!"

Once more they erupted into laughter.

Isobel did not linger after lunch. Violet was to have to her regular afternoon interview with Carson and his assistant and Isobel did not want to interfere with that. But then, as she stepped out the gate and saw the two men approaching, other thoughts occurred to her.

Her gaze fell in the first instance on the younger of the two. Had she set eyes on him before? He was almost as tall as Carson, dark-haired, pleasant-looking, and dignified. Yes, he and Carson were well paired, this Daniel Ryder a youthful complement to the older man. Tim Grey's comments flitted through her mind. But it was Carson in whom she was really interested and she hailed him cheerfully.

"Lady Merton," Carson said affably and he introduced his companion.

"May I have a moment, Carson?"

"Of course, my lady."

Although she had never been one for the folderol of titles, Isobel appreciated how easily the address rolled off of Carson's tongue. She knew that he did not easily adapt to the shifting of class lines and that he was an inveterate ally and admirer of Cousin Violet, which meant that he would take the latter's part in any dispute, right or wrong, against Isobel. That he had accepted her change of status was gratifying.

Daniel Ryder excused himself and walked on, leaving them alone. Isobel appreciated his discretion and turned to the former butler.

And from the window of her drawing room, Violet looked down on this casual encounter, on two of the people of whom she was very fond, and smiled.

 **Upstairs Dinner**

 _ **Wednesday September 30, 1926**_

On Wednesday night Cora requested a special dinner from Mrs. Patmore's kitchen and prevailed upon Violet to join the rest of the family.

"What is the occasion?" Violet inquired as Barrow adjusted her chair. "Have I forgotten someone's birthday?"

"No, Mama. It's only that Robert is back from London and Henry is going away on Friday to Berlin..."

"I was only gone two days."

"I'm only going for four days."

The two men spoke at the same time and this elicited a gentle laughter around the table.

The atmosphere was lighter than it had been a few days earlier, but there were still those dissonant undercurrents of residual resentment emanating from Robert and Tom toward each other.

"How was Edith?" Mary asked.

An almost imperceptible smile shadowed Henry's face at this question. Mary was determined to deny her father any opportunity to express his reservations, but opening with a query about Edith seemed like a desperate maneuvre.

"Edith is well," Robert replied. "She was reviewing the proofs for the latest edition of _The Sketch_. That's why she was in London."

"And how are things at Brancaster?" Violet was not at all deterred by the others' determined circumspection. She was quite specifically concerned about the state of Edith's marriage.

"Also well," Robert said firmly, giving her a meaningful look.

"Tell us about your diplomatic adventure," Cora said. Robert had returned too late for tea and had not as yet had an opportunity to expound on the event which he had gone to London to attend.

Her question won her a warm smile from her husband, who was gratified by this expression of support. They had got over the irritation concerning Robert's involvement with the ambassador.

"Ambassador Houghton is a genial host. It was more a social occasion than anything else, an attempt to lay the groundwork for good feeling between key members of the Foreign Office, some tricky members of Parliament, and the American team before they get down to the serious business."

"That sounds like a good idea," Cora said. "That's what Ambassador Houghton was talking about when he was here - building bridges of friendship."

"I'm not sure how successful it was or what I contributed to it, except to keep Lord Ranskill from shutting down the shop when Oswald Mosley came in."*

"Oswald Mosley!"

The whole company stared at him.

"What was _he_ doing there?" Henry demanded.

Robert, who had mastered his astonishment by now, shrugged. "He is quite anti-war, almost violently so," he added wryly. "And he came in the company of one of the staunchest advocates in the Foreign Office for a softening of the Versailles terms. Uninvited, but it was a cocktail party not dinner." He paused. "He's unbalanced, if you ask me."

"The war turned him against war," Henry murmured. "The trenches will do that."

"He switched parties," Robert declared, as though that were evidence enough of anyone's mental deterioration.

"Well, so did Churchill," Mary said. "Twice."

" _Churchill_ didn't join _Labour_." Robert's tone was acid. It was the most complimentary thing he'd ever said about the man. "Either time. _Or_ do so over Ireland."

A few tense seconds followed. Ireland was a topic never easily negotiated.

"His wedding in 1920 was one of the social events of the year," Cora interceded, attempting to leaven the conversation with something frivolous. "Do you remember it Mama?"

"I'm not in the grip of senility, my dear," Violet responded vigorously. "Of course I remember it. Lord Curzon's daughter. Royalty and diamonds everywhere. But it hasn't stuck."

"Why didn't _you_ leave, Papa? Instead of persuading old Ranskill to stay."

"Because smoothing frictions was precisely _why_ I was there and it was certainly a challenge." An awkward pause followed this remark, reflecting perhaps Robert's awareness of the delicate balance at his own table.

Tom, who in an earlier incarnation might easily have added fuel to the fire by praising Oswald Mosley for quitting the Conservative party over Churchill's eager deployment of the Black and Tans in Ireland, instead offered a balm in the form of another diversion.

"I saw Barrow and Andy out with measuring tapes on the lawn this morning. What's that about?"

Violet looked up abruptly. "Are you planning a social event on the lawn, Robert? In _October_?"

"Not quite, Mama." Though he spoke to his mother, Robert favoured Tom with a genuine smile for the first time in days, pleased by his tact and restraint, and feeling called to respond in kind. At the same time he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, how butler and footman drew themselves up alertly at this reference to them. Gratefully he abandoned the turbulent subject of Oswald Mosley.

"They're measuring the course for a race.'

"A race!"

Mary, Henry, and Tom exchanged intrigued glances. Cora, to whom Robert had already mentioned the event in passing, looked on in interest.

"What kind of race? Horses on the lawn!"

"A foot race, Mama."

"And who is to run in it?" demanded Mary, surprised by the whole thing.

Robert turned slightly toward Barrow who stepped forward at this subtle summons. "Well, Barrow will represent Downton and he is going to run against Carson's assistant ..."

"Mr. Ryder, my lord."

"Yes, Ryder. The man who's been working with Carson."

"Why?" This novel development had momentarily shaken even Tom from his gloom.

"For fun," Robert said succinctly. "Tell them how it came to be, Barrow."

The butler cleared his throat. "It came up in the servants' hall. We were talking about a footrace at Cambridge University..."

"The Great Court Run!" Henry murmured, nodding. His eyes seemed to brighten.

"Yes. Mr. Ryder, who attended Trinity College and ran the race ..."

"Did he!"

"Henry!" Mary said, in amused reproof. Henry was not usually given to interrupting.

"... was explaining it to us and Mr. Bates suggested ..."

"Daisy," Andy intoned.

"Right. Daisy suggested we might have a run of our own and His Lordship agreed..."

"Why not!" Robert said. "The Downton Abbey Run! And Barrow is to be our man," he added proudly.

Barrow nodded in pleased acknowledgment.

"I didn't realize you were quite such an athlete," Mary remarked, gazing critically at the butler as though assessing him in this new light.

"You've seen him on the cricket pitch," Robert reminded her robustly. "Barrow is always our best player." It was a reference to the annual game wherein teams from the house and the village played an ostensibly good-will match that was actually an intense contest of pride and honour that both sides took very seriously.

"Have you picked a date?" Cora asked, looking to Barrow.

"Saturday October 16, my lady," Barrow said promptly. "It may be a bit cool, but what with Mr. Talbot's trip to Berlin and the need to practice at least a little..."

Later, as they got up to make their way to the drawing room - _not_ dividing, despite Violet's presence and her preference for the formalities - the family group broke into pairs.

"So things _are_ all right with Edith?" Cora asked her husband.

He shrugged. "She seemed herself again. There were no tears or recriminations. She and Bertie are talking, albeit somewhat coolly. She didn't tell me why they'd fallen out, but I'm sure it will right itself eventually."

Cora sighed. Robert did not like to confront problems or have difficult conversations and thus was not an entirely reliable barometer of Edith's situation.

Mary had taken her grandmother's arm and was regaling her with the exploits of George and Stephen. As Barrow opened the door for them, Mary glanced over at him.

"A Downton Abbey race! You certainly have an exciting few weeks ahead of you, Barrow."

Barrow gave her a nod but his expression remained admirably impassive.

As they moved into the Great Hall, Violet fixed an eye on Mary. "What was that about?"

Mary smiled enigmatically. "Nothing, Granny."

"You are very trying, my dear."

Tom and Henry followed the others into the Great Hall, Tom drawing his brother-in-law off to the side for a moment.

"Well done, not rising to Oswald Mosley's defense!" Henry said.

"I've mixed feelings about him myself," Tom admitted. "And I've had the fight knocked out of me for a while."

"Nothing from the police?"

"No." He brushed that away with what Henry thought was almost indifference. "Listen, Henry, why don't you run in that race, too?"

Henry's eyebrows slowly arched.

"I mean it."

"I've not been invited to participate," Henry said, "and I wouldn't want to push in. Besides, Barrow is Downton's man."

Tom shook his head impatiently. "And he can still be. But he said that this other fellow ... Ryder? ... that he went to Cambridge. And you went to Oxford. And I _saw_ the look in your eye when you were listening to Barrow."

"The Great Court Run _is_ legendary, Tom. But ... I'm too old to race. Except in a car," he added with a grin.

"I'll write to Mr. Churchill and tell him you're ready for your old age pension, then. Henry! Barrow is only a few years younger than you and you're in as good shape, if not better. You could win!"

Henry thought for a minute. "I'm going to be seeing a lot of Barrow this weekend. I'll talk to him about it, but I'm not promising anything. And I _won't_ push in on them. If Barrow and company don't agree, I'll stay on the sidelines and cheer for ... What is Carson's man's name again?"

They both laughed at this.

"What about you, Tom? Why don't you think about it?"

"I could never run."

 **John and Anna**

 _ **Thursday September 30, 1926**_

Anna had never been to the Dales.

As the flat land gave way to the ridges and slopes and valleys, criss-crossed with narrow lanes lined with hedgerows or stone walls, the hillsides dotted with sheep, she gasped. Beside her on the wide bus seat John Bates stared at his wife, enjoying her rapture. _He_ had been here before.

"We're lucky to have the sun," he remarked. "It poured the two days I was in London with His Lordship. The Dales are dramatic in any weather, but everything is better in the sunshine.'

Anna was hardly listening to him. "How is it I've never come this way before? It is magnificent."

John grinned.

They had not brought Robbie with them after all. The very suggestion of such a trip had prompted Nanny to protest, but they could easily have ignored this. Neither Anna nor John felt compelled to yield to the tyranny of the Downton nanny and had at different times pondered the willingness of Lady Mary, Lady Edith as she had been then, and sometimes even Tom to do so. It was the practicalities that defeated the Bateses in this instance. The day would be too long for him, they could not count on the weather to cooperate, and they wanted to give the inn a thorough examination.

Taking her eyes from the scenery for a moment, Anna turned to her husband. "It would have been our first trip together as a family," she said, missing her little boy.

"We'll go to Thirsk for an afternoon together. It won't matter to Robbie."

Anna rolled her eyes at him. "I meant doing something meaningful for our family, _together_. Not just getting out of the house." She sighed a little. "Did you tell His Lordship where we were going and why?"

"I did. He wished us well."

This set the right tone for their excursion and as the bus wended its way along the country lanes, dotted with lay-bys for oncoming traffic and the occasional sheep, they chatted of matters pertaining to their life outside of Downton.

"Another name!" John groaned, when Anna patted her slightly distended belly and asked if he had any ideas. "It took _months_ to come up with the last one."

"It's hardly an onerous task," she said, frowning at him. "Just don't reject every suggestion this time."

"But names are important," he countered, staring into her mesmerizing grey-green eyes and trying to focus on the conversation. "They're with you for your whole life and yet you have no say in your own name. There's something askew about that."

"Let's let Robbie decide!" Anna suggested.

"Didn't you hear what I just said!"

"We can come up with a list of names and he can choose from among them."

John shook his head. "If our child is going to object to his ... or her ... name, I think only we should be to blame for it."

"John!"

They were enjoying the freedom to engage in such frivolous banter.

"And how are you going to like being the proprietor of a hotel?" Anna asked mischievously. "You who doesn't enjoy the company of others."

"I _do_ enjoy the company of others," he protested, persisting despite Anna's eyebrow which arched sceptically. "Just not of _all_ others. Besides," he added, "there are so many other advantages to a different kind of life that I think I can adjust to the few less attractive aspects."

"You do know you're going to have to smile at people when they come in the front door?" she teased. "Because usually you're wearing a fierce glower that would drive the faint-hearted away."

"It didn't work on you."

"I'm not faint of heart."

"No," he agreed, his bright eyes smouldering with adoration. "You're not." He drew himself back to the subject. "In my own hotel, I will greet everyone with a smile _and_ a friendly word," he assured her. "Or train our children up to be genial clerks, while I occupy myself with the books and the upkeep."

The bus rumbled to a halt at a crossroads and they saw the sign for Grassington. His own excitement building, John glanced at Anna and saw a look of what he thought was apprehension in her eyes.

"Are you having second thoughts?" he asked momentarily jarred.

"No! What I'm having is butterflies! This has been a long time coming, John."

The line on his forehead faded and he grinned again. "You've been very patient," he said softly.

"I've had faith," she responded and then leaned toward him, their lips meeting in a gentle kiss.

"This is it!" John said a little while later as the bus began its descent down a slope into the village. Within moments they were alighting onto a cobblestone street in the square and looking around, much pleased with what they saw in the familiar limestone buildings and beguiling shops.

John, distracted by the surroundings, stumbled on the rough stones and almost lost his balance. He looked up at Anna. "England is not a country for the imperfect."

But there was no pity in her loving gaze. "You'll get used to it," she said brightly. For Anna the glass was always half full.

The inn they sought was just off the square. "A nice central location," John mused.

"The Devonshire Inn," Anna said, recalling the name. "Why Devonshire? We're a bit far from Chatsworth."

"The Devonshires are _everywhere_ ," John intoned. "Bolton Abbey is only a few miles down the road. But I don't mind them sharing the name of my establishment."

Anna groaned at his feeble humour.

The Devonshire Inn was a long, low building, two storeys in height, made of the familiar Yorkshire limestone. There was a great fireplace in the dining room and electric lighting throughout and five bedrooms upstairs, with a stable fallen out of use at the back that the owner argued persuasively could be transformed into an additional wing. Anna tested all the beds while John examined the window frames and fireplaces and inquired about fuel costs. The staircases were solid and well lit and, Anna was glad to see, had good railings, not that John would have to climb them often. The family's living quarters, another two rooms and a bath, were off the kitchen.

Mr. Hadley, the current owner, said business was fair but that he was no longer up to the work involved in such an enterprise, an assertion made believable by his agonizing climb to the rooms above. He opened the receipt books to them to show how business fluctuated with the seasons, but suggested that two robust young persons such as themselves could expect to improve that.

"It's a family village," he declared solemnly, on hearing that they had one child and were expecting another. "My own family thrived here." But his voice saddened and his eyes went a little misty at that and they did not press him.

And when they had seen all they could see and asked every question imaginable, they took their leave, promising to consider the place and send word by the first of the week following.

"We ought to have had lunch there," Anna said, taking his arm as they turned into the square again.

"I want to get a sense of the village," John countered. "It isn't just about the soundness of the building or the potential of the business. We're going to live here, in this village. I want to know something of what our life will be like." He paused and then went on. "Will there be a nosy post-mistress like Mrs. Wigan? Do the great family exert any influence here? What is the market like?"

Anna, enjoying watching him rattle these things off, smiled at him. "We'll have to look out our own suppliers, just as Mrs. Patmore does."

"Exactly. Is there a local football team?" he added and then grinned as Anna groaned. She was not an admirer of sports, though he suspected she would have developed an interest had he been capable of involvement. "We do have a son," he reminded her. "Maybe we'll have two. Or six."

She groaned again. "Then let's make sure they have a doctor!"

They found a pub and settled themselves in to a nice meal.

"It's also good to know what the competition has to offer," John murmured, looking around with a critical eye.

"We can do a lot of the work around the hotel, but we'll need a good cook," Anna said.

"We can hire Daisy," John said playfully. "She's always talking about leaving Downton."

"I think she has someplace a little livelier in mind than Grassington."

"Whereas a quiet life will suit me just fine.'

Well, she agreed with him on that.

After they had toured the streets they made their way to the banks of the River Wharfe.

"I think this is what Downton is missing," Anna said, huddling into John against the cool breeze. "A river."

"There's water at Downton. With my old leg brace sitting in it somewhere." He grimaced at the memory of himself and Mrs. Hughes, as she was then, dispatching his flawed dream of becoming whole again into the shimmering waters of the lake. He had faced something about himself that day. And accepted it.

"But not a river. Rivers flow, move on. Your brace would have been swept away in a river, never to be thought of again."

"That wouldn't change anything."

"John," Anna said, after a while. "You said what you were doing for the Dowager wouldn't affect _us_. Will it affect _them_? The family?"

He considered for a minute, pondering the parameters of his commitment to discretion. "That depends on the Dowager."

"I hope it's nothing ... bad." A little line of worry creased Anna's brow.

He shrugged. "I couldn't say. They have other troubles enough at the moment. Do you know, His Lordship thinks Mr. Branson is being obstructive about the fire investigation, although perhaps 'obstructive' is too strong a word for it."

"Why would he want to do that?"

As they strolled on, traversing the river's edge and then turning back into the winding streets of the village, their conversation ranged over recent developments at Downton - Mr. Molesley's commemoration project, the 'great race,' Daisy's endless vacillations on her future, the impending visit of Mrs. Patmore's sister. And the upstairs considerations - the challenges for Mr. Branson of life at the Abbey once more, His Lordship's not-quite-muted horror at his grand daughter going to the village school, Her Ladyship's awakening social conscience.

"I wouldn't go _quite_ far," John said of the last. "Curiosity more than conscience, I think."

"She's going to visit a workhouse, John. Who do you know who's done that?"

"People don't usually _visit_ workhouses. They go there. And don't come back."

The bus was on time and they were ready for it, having strolled the lanes of the village and walked past 'their' inn several times.

"It's two hours from Downton," Anna noted, as the bus accelerated up the hill. "And it'll be difficult to get away for a whole day, for a while anyway."

"Perhaps," John said slowly, "Lady Mary will come to visit _you_."

"I do hope so."

 **Thomas and Daniel**

 _ **Thursday September 30, 1926**_

"Mr. Barrow?"

The voice came to him out of the darkness. He turned toward it and saw a shaft of light from the open doorway of one of the cottages and then it was gone again and Daniel Ryder was coming into the lane where he stood.

Thomas drew deeply on his cigarette and the lit end glowed.

"You won't win a race with that bad habit," Daniel said, joining him in his casual stroll. And then, smiling, took one of the cigarettes Thomas offered him.

He ought to be back at the Abbey, tucked up in his bed under the eaves and trying to get some sleep that he might be rested for the grand adventure that was to begin tomorrow. _Berlin_! _Erich!_ The prospect was exhilarating beyond belief. And yet he was restless, unsettled, and so had opted for a walk in the cool of a September night. He had eschewed his usual haunts - the cottage row of happy couples or the cobblestone streets of the village - in favour of a different lane and a different row of cottages, among which were the few reserved for local school teachers.

"I'll beat you," Thomas said easily, confidently.

"I don't think you will."

"Well, that's why we're having a race, isn't it?" Thomas blew a stream of smoke. "Were you looking out the window?"

"I was. I enjoy the night sky in the country. You can really _see_ the stars. I suppose you were too excited about your trip to sleep."

"In a way. I've never been to the Continent, except during the war, and that doesn't count."

"No," Daniel said gravely. "Not really. Will you have much time to yourself? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the duties of a valet."

Thomas filed that information away. "I'm sure I will. Mr. Talbot has never had a valet. I don't really know why he wants one." They walked on. "So how is it, living with Mr. Molesley?"

"You don't think much of him, do you?"

"No." Thomas saw no reason to dissemble. "Do you?"

"I do. He's a very pleasant sort. And quite well read in history and literature."

"So you've found a soulmate."

Daniel stopped. "What is it, Mr. Barrow? You don't like Mr. Carson. You don't like Mr. Molesley. Why so hostile?"

"I'm not hostile," Thomas corrected him. "I've worked with both of them. You haven't."

"Is there no one at Downton you like?"

Thomas didn't answer and they moved on again.

"Why _are_ you out for a walk in the middle of the night?" Daniel demanded suddenly. "You're going _Berlin_ in the morning, one of the most exciting cities in the world, on a holiday almost, and yet you're wandering the back lanes of Yorkshire like a lost dog."

Thomas bristled. "I..." It was only what he'd been asking himself. Thomas could be introspective but he wasn't given to unburdening himself to others. Miss O'Brien had been something of an exception, although that had gone sour in the end. Eventually he'd enjoyed camaraderie with Jimmy Kent, but Jimmy was someone to pal around with, not confide in. Miss Baxter was different yet again, but not one for his deepest confidences either. _What it is_ \- the words thundered in his head - _is that I'm going tomorrow to Berlin, one of the most exciting cities in the world, and I've got no one to share it with, no one who can be excited for me, no one I can tell about it when I get back!_ And he hated that.

He drew himself up with dignity. "I've got to get back to the Abbey." And then he turned around and disappeared into the darkness without a backward glance.

 ***Author's Note:** Oswald Mosley - Great War veteran; unsatisfactory husband to one of Lord Curzon's daughters and lover of another, and their stepmother; youngest member of Parliament to that point to take up his seat; party switcher - from Conservative to Labour; and later, in the 1930s, the acknowledged leader of the British Union of Fascists - was named by a BBC poll as the "worst Briton of the 20th Century." His presence here is name-dropping entirely for the purposes of stimulating conversation amongst the Downton players and the further revelation of their characters.


	33. Chapter 33

**DOWNTON ABBEY**

 **Episode 7. Chapter 5**

 _ **Friday October 1, 1926**_

 **Elsie and Charlie**

On Friday morning the butler's livery, pristine and pressed to perfection, hung on a hook on the wardrobe door in the corner of the cottage bedroom. Next to it was a starched shirt so white it gleamed. And on the floor just below them were a pair of highly polished shoes.

He had pretended he wasn't excited at all about the prospect of returning to the Abbey and had, in fact, come across a little aggrieved at having been distracted from his _work_. Elsie had let him grumble about it all evening, amused by the facade but also pleased that he had moved on so successfully that the history of the Crawleys had taken precedence. Or so he said. She wasn't _completely_ convinced. But she had helped make him ready, made sure there were no loose threads on his clothing, no blemish he had overlooked on his shoes. He wanted to be perfect for Downton Abbey, as he always had, and she was fully supportive of that desire.

And yet for all the fussing over his livery, he had fallen asleep easily enough and it was she, not he, who woke before dawn with her mind whirring with the tasks and demands of the day ahead. And ... with excitement for him. Thinking of this, she rolled over to face him. They always started the night side by side, her back to his chest. By morning he was lying on his back, as she found him now. He did not stir at her movement and so for a little while she just looked at him.

Elsie had chosen a career in domestic service and accepted the celibate life that went with it, but living like a nun didn't mean she had to think like one. She'd always taken notice of a good-looking man and knew well those aspects that she found attractive in one. If she'd been asked, by Mrs. Patmore or Anna or anyone else, why it was she had fallen in love with Charles Carson there were many ways she might have replied. They were great friends; he exemplified many of the virtues she admired; she enjoyed his company; he could be very sweet... But she would not have told a soul that she had also been entranced by the physical man. She liked a dark-eyed, dark-haired man. In his chiseled features she saw strength and clarity and she was drawn to that. In his height and breadth there was a sense physical power that she found compelling and yet also reassuring. And intoxicating. The way he moved sometimes took her breath away. She could hardly have explained that to Mrs. Patmore.

She reached out to him, her fingers dancing lightly up his arm, in and out of the rumpled folds of his pajama sleeves until they came to rest on his shoulder. Then she slid her flattened hand across his chest. How easy and natural it was to touch him! That thought made her laugh. Natural _now_ , perhaps! But hadn't it taken them a while to get used to each other! to extend to their physical life together the intimacy that had blossomed organically in their long friendship.

He stirred at the sound of her laughter and when his eyes fluttered open she was right there, the first thing on which his gaze fell. And he smiled.

"Good morning, love."

Oh, she was never going to tire of hearing that!

On any other morning, feeling this way, she might have enticed him into play and found him a willing partner. But she knew him too well to expect to distract him today.

"It's still early," she assured him, as he suddenly came over more alert, the responsibilities of the day ahead making themselves felt.

He relaxed a little then and smiled into her lips as she leaned forward to kiss him. "You're in good humour," he observed, looking pleased.

"I am," she declared, propping herself up against him. "I'm looking forward to your being at Downton all day. Did you want to join the rest for breakfast?" He hadn't made up his mind on this the night before and doing so would mean they would have to get up sooner.

"No. Mr. Barrow and Mr. Talbot are catching the nine o'clock. He can preside over breakfast."

Elsie stifled a smile at this. There would be an awkwardness over seating arrangements if Charlie and Mr. Barrow were at the same table and she knew her husband never wanted to appear in a position of inferiority with regard to the current butler.

"His Lordship will be glad to see you, I'm sure," she said instead. Overall she thought His Lordship was making an effort with Mr. Barrow, but the relationship was never going to be what it had been with her Mr. Carson. "They've promised a quiet weekend on account of Mr. Barrow's absence."

"Let us hope so," her husband intoned. "I think there's been enough excitement of late, with the American ambassador, and then the party from Brancaster, and then the fire."

At his grumbling, Elsie felt another impulse to smile. Then she was startled as he scrambled up on his elbows to look at her more directly.

"I've been so preoccupied with today that I forgot to tell you. Lady Merton is putting on a dinner party and has asked me to help."

This did take her aback. "Will you?"

"It's more a question of _can_ I help. His Lordship and Her Ladyship _understand_ my ... condition. They asked me to manage things this weekend, but they know there are things I cannot do. But Lady Merton is planning a _society_ dinner. I don't know that I can really be of much use to her."

"But you didn't say no?"

"I told her I would think about it. I believe she may be at Downton today or tomorrow." He paused. "I could _supervise_ , make sure her staff are on top of things. But there would have to be someone else in the dining room. I _can't_ pour the wines." He shook his head. "She really should have a butler."

Elsie ignored the last point. "Well, if you agree, I'll help. Not with the wines, of course, but with the organizing."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Lady Merton has done some good things. Helping Ethel Parks and Charlie Grigg."

He fell back on his pillow with a groan. "I thought we had agreed not to mention _him_ again."

"I don't remember that. Besides, you made it up with him."

"And settled it. I'm done with him."

But thinking of Charlie Grigg reminded Elsie of a question she had long wanted to ask. "When you were on the halls with him..."

"Here we go."

"...did you just sing? Or was there more to your act? Did you tell jokes?"

"Elsie," he said plaintively, looking pained. "You know we did more than just sing. We danced. And...yes. We told jokes." He stared back at her, clearly hoping that would be the end of it.

"Who was the funny one?" This was really what she wanted to know.

"Must we discuss this? Now? I have work to attend to!" He began scrabbling at the bedclothes.

"Oh, just tell me," she said, poking him.

He stopped thrashing about. "Me, of course," he said, a little huffily. "Can you picture _him_?"

She laughed. "I can't picture _you_!"

This perplexed him. "Look. If you and I ... I cannot believe I am saying this... if you and I were a double act, who do you think, between _us_ , would be the funny one?"

That was a poser - a staid Englishman or a dour Scot. "I think we'd have to hire a third partner!" she said pertly and then chuckled at his exasperation.

"You take such pleasure in teasing me," he said, half resigned, half reproachful.

"I take pleasure in everything about you," she replied with a sudden solemnity, and then reached out to put a hand to his cheek.

He covered her hand with his and then turned his head slightly that he might press his lips to her palm. As he did so, his eyes fell on the livery hanging on the wardrobe door and he shifted his gaze to her once more.

"Time to get up."

 **Robert and Cora**

At Downton Abbey, Cora awoke when a sliver grey dawn breached the carefully drawn curtain and fell across her eyes. It was early, much earlier than she would rise, but in that delicious moment of _hatching_ \- as Sybil once described the slow ascendance into a wakened state - she realized that she did not want to go back to sleep. An impulse both playful and amorous seized her and she rolled over to face Robert.

She knew at a glance that he was already awake though he had not given himself away in movement. And she knew, too, that he was agitated. His body language - he lay on his back, hands folded across his stomach, his whole frame too still - told her that. Her desire for him did not diminish, but transformed in an instant into empathy. She tucked a hand around his arm and pulled herself to his side. His arm tightened and then relaxed again in an acknowledgment of her presence.

"What's on your mind?" she asked gently.

He shook his head almost perceptibly. In the dimness of the room, Cora felt it more than saw it.

"Is it Edith? Was there something about her?"

"No. Edith _is_ fine." He spoke quietly, almost without inflection.

"This business with Tom, then?" How could Tom _not_ be a concern. But though she offered this up, Cora did not think the ongoing puzzlement over the burning of Shamrock Cottage would have Robert in this state and he confirmed this by shaking his head.

Instead of guessing again, Cora snuggled up against him and tucked his shoulder under her chin, nudging his ear lobe not so much in play as an encouragement to confide in her.

"Did you ...," he started abruptly and then stopped. "How did you manage when your father died?"

She hadn't expected that. "What?"

"You hadn't seen him for two years. He was across an ocean. The news came by telegraph..."

It was an odd thing for him to ask, but Cora drew back a little and considered. "I was very sad, of course. He was a dear man, Father. And so much easier to love and _like_ than Mother!" she said this with a poignant little laugh. Her mother _was_ something else. "And it was so unexpected. But ... I _was_ over here. And we had three young children and ... somehow ... the physical crossing of the ocean, being literally a world away ... I had to accept that it would happen, someday, and that I wouldn't be there. There was nothing I could do about it."

He did know all that. They had discussed, before they had married, the reality of the vast and permanent distance from her family and what that would mean to her in terms of the momentous events in the lives of her parents and brother. That Robert had thought to raise the matter had struck Cora at the time as a display of remarkable sensitivity and consideration on his part, and she had loved him all the more for it.

"Robert?'

"It's..."

There was enough light filtering into the room so she could see that his face was screwed up in that way he had when he was trying to hold something in and his usual reserves of dispassion had failed. "... Mama," he said at last, admitting it.

"Oh, my darling." Cora threw her arm over him. "Do we know anything definite?"

He drew a deep breath and then exhaled very slowly. "I believe Edith may," he said, working to rein in emotion. "She wasn't explicit..."

Cora sighed inwardly at this. None of them ever _were_ explicit, the Crawleys.

"...but I think she knows something."

It would be no good telling him not to worry or brushing away his apprehensions or feigning a cheerful optimism. Mama _was_ fading. They had both noticed it. And though Dr. Clarkson had not and could not say anything - his profession demanded such discretion - did not his actions speak for themselves? That carriage ride in the park last week was an extraordinary gesture from someone outside the family, but it reflected the long acquaintance between the dowager and the doctor that was grounded in a profound degree of mutual respect. _We ought to have done that_ , Cora thought, and then impatiently pushed that aside. Recriminations were useless.

"We can spend more time with her," she said. "All the time you'd like, Robert."

"I wish there were something I could do," he said softly.

"The best gift in our giving is our time." She arched her neck and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "She adores you, Robert. She wouldn't change a single thing about you. Not a single hair on your head."

"I don't deserve such regard," he said and there was almost a quaver in his voice.

"But you do," Cora said firmly.

He turned to her then and in his tear-blurred eyes she saw not only the awakening grief for his mother but also the passionate love he held for her. Her heart skipped a beat.

"I don't deserve you," he said.

"Words are such a weak vessel in which to capture love," she murmured, pressing her lips to his. He tightened his arms about her. For all his carefully cultivated dispassion, feeling ran deep in him. Somehow she had discerned the potential of his heart those many years ago when they had first met in the great drawing rooms of the nation. What a choice she had made!

It was some time before they drew apart. Somehow the mysterious and intangible magic of a lover's touch had worked the healing that was beyond words so that when he spoke again it was with his usual measured tones.

"Bates will be up soon."

The mundane nature of the words were overshadowed by the still-simmering feelings evident in his look and touch. They leaned into a gentle kiss and then Robert slid from the bed.

Cora watched him disappear into the dressing room and then sank back into her pillows. Dearest Mama. It was hard to imagine Downton without her.

 **Thomas**

Thomas was impatient to be away.

It was just short of torture to endure the achingly slow evaporation of the minutes between his rising - an hour earlier than usual because there was no point just lying in bed - and their departure. He tried to fill it with work, but he'd been efficient the day before in arranging everything perfectly, not wanting to give Mr. Carson any grounds for disapproval. And he couldn't concentrate anyway.

He presided over the downstairs breakfast as usual but could hardly eat a bite. And to have Mrs Patmore and Daisy registering this and exchanging knowing glances about it was exasperating. Although it was amusing, too. _Knowing_. The fact was they knew _nothing_ , nothing about what the adventure on which he was embarking might entail. Neither of them had ever been anywhere. And as for the more personal aspect of his trip to Berlin, well, as spinsters - he summarily dumped Daisy in this category because she hadn't _really_ been married - they could hardly envisage something as profoundly prosaic as the Carsons' honeymoon, let alone Berlin, _his_ Berlin, the Berlin of _Erich_. That was wholly beyond their feeble imaginings.

Unable to bear it any longer he got to his feet, but gave them all leave to remain and finish their breakfasts. It was generous of him, but he did not see why they should abandon their half-eaten meals because he couldn't sit still. Retreating to the pantry once more, he checked the straps on his grip, though he knew they were sound, and wondered if it were too early to go load it in the car.

Of course he was excited. He didn't know quite what was ahead of him, but he was determined to live every minute to the fullest. And though he'd been feeling blue the night before, wishing he could share his exhilaration and anticipation with someone, morning and the reality of his departure had sent his spirits soaring. He was going to be with a man, with other men, in a whole community _like him_ , in a place where being _like him_ wasn't regarded as a perversion or something that must be hidden. Thomas was a little nervous about this, not sure whether he would be able to surrender himself to this, but he was certainly going to try!

"Mr. Barrow?"

He was shaken from his self-absorption and looked up abruptly to find Miss Baxter at the door.

She moved into his office. "Thomas. I want to wish you a pleasant journey," she said warmly. "I hope you'll have some time on your own to look around. I've never been anywhere," she added wistfully.

She was genuinely happy for him, he could see that. And if she wasn't exactly what he had in mind in terms of a friend, he did appreciate her effort. "Thank you," he said. "I'll send you a postcard." He surprised himself with that. "Make Mr. Molesley jealous." He grinned to show her that he was teasing.

She blushed and Thomas could hardly keep from shaking his head. "Thank you," he said again.

Miss Baxter ducked out.

He ought to check on breakfast upstairs, make sure Andy and Lewis were handling it right. There wasn't much doubt in his mind that they were but it wouldn't hurt to look in. If there was one little niggling concern in Thomas's mind about this trip it was Lewis. He knew everyone else too well - including Mr. Carson - to worry about what they might do in his absence. But Lewis, though efficient to a fault, was still a wild card. He shrugged that away. The moment he got into the car heading for the station, he knew that Downton would cease to exist for him until his return.

Thomas stepped into the passage and almost into the passing figure of Daniel Ryder. They'd sat together at the servants' table, but hadn't spoken to each other except to exchange a pleasant greeting.

"All set?" Ryder asked genially.

Thomas was in too good a mood to hold their slightly fractious conversation the night before against the man. "I am," he replied brightly.

Together they strode up the stairs, Thomas heading for the dining room, Ryder for the small library. At the green baize door, Ryder put a hand on the doorknob and then paused.

"I hope you have a wonderful time in Berlin, Mr. Barrow."

"Thank you."

Ryder gave him a quick smile and then moved off across the Great Hall to his destination. Thomas turned to the dining room, feeling buoyed up even by that mild exchange. And then he came over a little puzzled. _Have a wonderful time_. That was an odd thing to say, wasn't it?

 **Isobel and Dickie**

He saw her coming from an upstairs window. Truth to tell, he had been looking out one window or another every few minutes for almost an hour in anticipation of her return. A visit to Downton Abbey had appealed to him as it always did - his connections with the Crawleys went back many years - but a previous engagement had prevented him from joining her there this afternoon. No matter. They would have a lovely tea together exchanging their news.

He bounded down the stairs exhibiting an exuberance some would have found out of keeping with his social rank and age, but he was impatient with such disapprobation. They had parted four hours ago with sweet kisses and laughter and even the loss of one minute more than was absolutely necessary was too much to ask of him. Critics who would frown on such overt expressions of love were those, he was sure, who had never known what love truly was. He himself had led such a barren existence until Isobel came into his life and that was enough to make him cherish every second he had with her.

Dickie expected to find Isobel in the hall, taking off her hat and coat, looking longingly toward the stairs in anticipation of setting her eyes on him. But she was not there. Puzzled, he looked around. Crawley House was large in proportion to the cottages in the village, but modest compared to Cavenham or Downton Abbey, or even the Dower House. His search did not take much time.

He found her standing by one of the long windows in the drawing room, that bright, warm space that was such a contrast to the several inviting rooms in his old home. Though her back was to him, he could see that she had her arms wrapped about herself. Her eyes seemed fixed on some point in the street beyond but she was not really looking at anything at all.

Still he approached her with enthusiasm and coming up behind her wound his arms about her. Despite her apparent preoccupation, she leaned back into him. "My sweet," he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek. It was only when he tasted the warm wetness there that he realized she was crying.

"Isobel!" he cried, gently turning her toward him. "What has happened?" His concern only deepened when he saw the grief etched in her lovely countenance. "My darling!" He felt a stab of fear .

She shook her head and tried a weak smile, accepting his hastily produced handkerchief to apply to her tears. "I'm overreacting," she said with a gulp. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine at all!" he protested, taking her arm and leading her to the sofa where they sat together, arms entwined. "Did something happen at the Abbey?" His expression became very grave. "Has something else happened to Tom?" They had been apprised of all the details of Tom's ordeal and Dickie could not, in an instant, think of anyone else on whom tragedy had recently been visited.

"No," Isobel said, managing to speak in a firm voice. "Tom is fine. But ... yes, there was something at the Abbey, though it's hardly worth _this_ display." She tried to laugh it off, but instead tears flowed once more.

Dickie did not believe this. Isobel was idealistic, but not sentimental. She would not break down so over a trivial matter. "Can you tell me about it?"

She took a deep breath. "I won't say it's silly, but this really _is_ too much.'

He patted her arm and waited.

"I spent some time today with George," she began.

Dickie's expression softened at this. He knew how much Isobel loved the handsome little blond boy and the delight she took in him. Dickie enjoyed the child as well. He would never have such a relationship with his own grandson, Edgar. The situation with Larry prohibited it.

"He was full of stories of the fire," Isobel went on, "and about his plans to become a fire chief." This amused them both. "And then he told me about how he and Barrow had traced the route that Henry and Barrow would take on their trip to Berlin today. But...," her face clouded again," ... he didn't say _Henry_ , of course. He said ... he said _Papa_." This last word came out as a cry of anguish.

Dickie put an arm about her and pulled her close.

"I ... I suppose that's how he's spoken of Henry all along, though I hadn't heard it before. And ... why shouldn't he? After all, his ... his _real_ papa died the day he was born..." She lapsed into sobs again and for a moment could not speak. Dickie held her firmly. "And ... it's right that Henry should take this place in his life. I can't expect George to go fatherless all his life, any more than I could wish Mary to wear widow's weeds forever. It's ... it's that I wasn't prepared for it."

And how could one prepare for something like that? There was nothing to do but hold her while she faced it. This was the sort of thing that one could only endure until it became bearable. No words could take away the hurt.

So they sat for some time.

"I'm so happy to have your shoulder to cry on," Isobel said at length, lifting her head to meet his adoring gaze.

"I cannot think it ever put to better use," he murmured stoutly.

She laughed a little at this. "Shall we have our tea?"

In short order Ellen had their tea ready and, fortified by this comforting ritual, Isobel was able to turn to other matters.

"I spoke with Carson today," she said. "He's minding the store while Barrow is away. He said he'd help us."

This _was_ good news. "Wonderful!"

"And he's issuing orders already," Isobel added, slightly ruffled. "He says we must push the date back to the 29th. And he wants to see the guest list, if you can imagine1 And he asked for the authority to buy or borrow appropriate personnel if we'd not arranged matters sufficiently." She shook her head. "And Cousin Violet wonders why I don't want a butler!"

Dickie was not perturbed. "We need a general," he said amiably.

"Yes, but not Napoleon!"

He laughed aloud at her indignation. "I think we must submit, my dear. Indeed," he added mischievously, "I believe paying obeisance to one's butler is one of the rules Carson mentioned in his article."

Isobel sighed. "I'm afraid we must. He did say that Mrs. Carson will help, which pleases me very much. Apart from her many domestic skills, she appears to be the only one who can keep the tyrant in check!"

A smile swept across Dickie's face. "Do you know, my dear, I think that we may very well pull this off!"

She could not help but be heartened by his gentle humour and laughed with him.

"Shall we invite Clarkson?" Dickie asked offhandedly.

"Why?"

A little furrow of confusion creased his brow at this response. "At the very least he will balance the numbers. According to the article," he added earnestly, "that's very important."

Isobel turned meditative. "No. I think not. It's not his style."


	34. Chapter 34

**DOWNTON ABBEY 1926**

 **Episode 7, Chapter 6**

 _ **Friday, October 1, 1926**_

 **Carson, Downton Abbey, and Lewis**

The butler stayed until the end and so it was well onto ten o'clock when he was ready to leave for the night. All in all it had been a good day back at Downton, though not without a bump or two.

The staff - the old staff- had welcomed him warmly. He was there in a supervisory capacity, not being able physically to do all that he had once managed as part of a day's work, but everyone understood this. Andrew was exceptionally aware and accommodating and Carson appreciated this. Lewis, who he knew only from butlers' notes and the little Elsie had passed on about him, was less obliging. When they met for the first time that morning, in the passage outside the butler's pantry, the footman returned Carson's appraising look with one that had only just fallen short of insolent.

"It's Mr. Carson!" he'd overheard Andrew telling Lewis in the boot room later. "He was the butler here for thirty-three years! _And_ he's good friends with His Lordship." This last point was not one with which Carson concurred, but he chose not to disabuse Lewis of it.

Mr. Bates put his head in the pantry door almost as soon as Carson had arrived. "It's very nice to have you back, Mr. Carson." The former butler and the valet had always gotten on, which was not something that could be said about the valet and the _new_ butler.

Mrs. Patmore herself brought him tea at mid-morning and rounded up Elsie to have it with him. "I've made cheese scones especially for you, Mr. Carson," the cook pointed out. He appreciated this and the fact that she left him and Elsie alone to enjoy them.

"Like old times," he said, with some satisfaction.

Elsie smiled at him. "You've abandoned me," she said to the great collie who was stretched out in front of the butler's desk as though that was his natural lair.

"Shep has stayed right by me this morning," he'd said, threading the dog's silky ears through his fingers. "I expect he'll take up his usual post in _your_ office when I go upstairs.'

"Oh, I don't think so. He seems to know there's something different about today. I think he'll wait for you here."

She'd been right.

He had not taken a meal in the servants' hall since his retirement, not wanting either to defer to Mr. Barrow or to tread on his toes. That conflict did not exist today and when he came into the room and found them all standing there attentively by their chairs, waiting for the butler as they always did, he _was_ pleased.

Anna and Miss Baxter extended greetings to him, as did Madge, a more assertive newly emboldened by her promotion. He was not convinced that was an improvement. And Daniel Ryder hailed him as well from his place next to Elsie. Carson knew that Daniel took two meals a day with the staff; indeed, _he_ had arranged it. But Daniel stood apart from the well-established servants' hall hierarchy and Carson had not faced this directly before. It took a little getting used to.

"Why're you sitting there?" he asked Anna, realizing that she was sitting to his left, on the other side of her husband, rather than on his right, beside Elsie.

"We've made a few adjustments," Elsie interjected smoothly. And before he could challenge this, he felt her stockinged toes kneading their way over his ankle and this, not surprisingly, distracted him. There she sat, calmly eating her chicken pie with the blandest expression in the world on her fac, and all the while teasing him. Mischief-maker!

"Tea?" Mrs. Patmore's appearance at his side jolted him.

There was an interesting dynamic at the table, what with Mr. Barrow gone and Daniel Ryder present. Carson had not had the opportunity to observe his assistant in interactions with anyone else but Elsie and now he saw how well integrated Daniel had become with the staff at Downton. They all spoke easily with him - all but Lewis who, Carson noted, spoke to no one - and it was clear that he was well liked. He drew the butler easily into the conversation when it turned to sports and his easy references to the cricket matches they had attended drew more than one look of astonishment from the assembled group. He affected not to notice this and focused instead on the animated exchange between the Bateses over an inn in Grassington.

"Are you really serious about this hotel business?" he asked Mr. Bates as they were getting up from the table.

"We are," Bates responded in a pleasant tone. "A life in service is not ideal for the raising of children, Mr. Carson."

They had one child and were expecting another; he had gathered this bit of information from Elsie. And though he could hardly imagine leaving Downton, forgetting that he had once long ago thought to do the same thing for the same reason, he could appreciate Mr. Bates's point. "It is only that you will be much missed, Mr. Bates," he said warmly. He meant by His Lordship, Lady Mary, and Elsie in particular, but knew that he would feel their absence, too.

"Thank you."

Attending in the dining room at upstairs lunch was both gratifying and frustrating. His Lordship greeted him as a long-lost friend, though only four days earlier they had enjoyed their weekly morning walk and exhausted conversation on all those subjects that were dear to them. Lady Mary gave him one of her sweet smiles. Her Ladyship graciously thanked him for stepping in and even Mr. Branson, whose somberness was a contrast to his usual spirited bearing, took a moment to welcome him back. But he could do nothing to assist in the actual service of the meal and could only watch as Lewis poured the wine. It was, he thought, a good thing that he had retired and also that he had found something else to do, thanks to the Dowager.

It also clarified for him what he could and could not do for Lady Merton with regard to her dinner party. This he put to her very plainly when he caught up with her in the early afternoon as she was on her way upstairs to the nursery. She was grateful enough that he, and Elsie, too, were prepared to organize her dinner, but less receptive to the list of conditions he set. So it had always been with her, he thought, as he descended to the servants' hall once more. She did not have the same understanding that came innately to His Lordship that a butler must have a free hand with the organization of a great event even to the point of prevailing over the host and hostess on some points.

He'd had in mind to visit Elsie and perhaps take afternoon tea with her, too, but was waylaid by Mrs. Patmore who clearly had something on her mind. Though the cook was never to be gainsaid when in such a state, he attempted a deflection anyway.

"Your lunch was delicious, Mrs. Patmore."

"Yes," she said peremptorily, not really hearing him. "It's been a while since you were the butler, Mr. Carson."

"Yes?" Her statement sounded like the prelude to a rebuke, though he could not imagine how he had transgressed.

"It's just that everyone can see the way you look at her, you know."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she said, and then went on relentlessly. "It's not that everyone doesn't know anyway, but you used to be better at hiding it. Well. No, you weren't. But back then we all had to pretend. But now you're married and we do know, so perhaps you could try to make it less obvious."

And then she'd walked away, shaking her head and leaving him feeling more than a little self-conscious. He thought she was exaggerating about the past, but ... had he lost his capacity to mask his emotions? Elsie, as it happened, was not in her sitting room anyway which was probably a good thing in that minute.

The only really disconsonant note all day, apart from Mrs. Patmore's uncomfortable intervention, came from the one person he did not know: Lewis. It began with that wordless but bold encounter in the passage early in the day, but did not end there.

At downstairs lunch, unimpressed by Lewis's studied aloofness from the rest of the staff Carson had tried to draw him out. "How are things at Strathmere?" he asked in a lull in the conversation among the senior staff. "Is your uncle well?"

Lewis hardly glanced his way. "Mr. Erskine and I are too taken up with our duties to be exchanging pleasantries," he said coolly and then went on with his lunch.

Carson could feel the ripple of indignation flow up and down the table at this slighting behaviour.

"At Downton we manage to be pleasant _and_ complete our duties efficiently," Mr. Bates said in a frosty tone. His eyes had flashed at the disrespect in the footman's tone.

Carson had nodded his thanks to Mr. Bates but chose in the moment to bide his time. Lewis, he was certain, would hang himself if given enough rope.

They clashed again later in the afternoon in the dining room. Crossing the Great Hall, Carson pulled out the measuring stick he had used for decades to make sure that all the settings were perfectly aligned. Perhaps this was not necessary given that it would be the immediate family, but he wanted all things properly done during his short sojourn at the Abbey. He strode into the room and then pulled up short.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded in the booming voice that had chilled the blood of many a footman over the years.

Lewis, who had been bent over the table measuring place settings with his own stick, straightened up. But he said nothing, only staring with that impudent look about him.

"Well?" Carson stalked over to him.

"I am ensuring that the table is properly set," he said without inflection.

"And _who_ told you to do this?"

"The family deserves the best service," Lewis responded. "I took it upon myself to see that they get it."

"This is the butler's responsibility."

"Yes. It is."

Ah. So that was his game. Carson had dealt with footmen over the years who thought this the path of upward mobility. "And the _butler_ will attend to it. Go."

Lewis left.

Carson could only shake his head. "I don't envy Mr. Barrow _that_ one," he told himself.

There had been no further incidents through dinner or afterward at the servants' meal, though Carson kept a lookout. By the time they were through eating, he was ready to go home. Casting about for Elsie he found her in her sitting room, collecting her things.

"You didn't have to stay," he said, bracing himself against the doorframe. "You're not paid for the evenings anymore."

"What would I do at home by myself?" she responded, with much more energy than he felt. He was glad she had stayed. "Are you worried about something?"

She always knew. He stepped into her office and shut the door.

"Lewis," he said succinctly. "I've left Andrew in charge of shutting the place up and given him the keys. But ... Elsie, I wonder if I should stay here tonight." The old mantle of responsibility that he'd worn for so many years was hard to shake off.

"You're _not_ staying here," she said firmly. "Andy is reliable. Let's go home and you can tell me about Lewis. And the rest of your day."

He'd almost been able to let go. They got as far as the head of the gravel path that would take them to their cottage row and then he stopped.

"I'm uneasy, Elsie. Let's just go back for a look. I'll have a word with Andrew and then ... then we can go home." He was grateful that she did not challenge him.

As they came through the coal yard gate, his eye caught something. "Why is there a light on in the butler's pantry?" She knew no more than he did. They hurried to the door and met Andy just about to lock up.

"Forgotten something, Mr. Carson?"

Puzzled, he followed them down the passage to the butler's pantry. Both doors were closed and locked. Carson plied the key in the mechanism of the nearer door and flung it open. Then the three of them stared at the spectacle within.

Lewis was seated at the butler's desk, the financial ledger and the wine book open before him. He held a glass of wine in his hand and on the desk, beside the lamp, was a newly-opened bottle from His Lordship's cellar. He looked over at them, his face creased with annoyance. He did not even get to his feet.

"What...?" Elsie couldn't even finish her question.

"What are you doing!" Andy demanded angrily, pushing in and then glancing about to see if anything else was out of order.

Carson moved more deliberately straight to the desk and at his approach Lewis did stand, putting his glass down as he did.

"The keys."

Lewis handed them over.

"Do you have anything to say?" A lesson Carson had learned a lifetime ago from his predecessor Mr. Finch was that one should always give a culprit the opportunity to offer an explanation. Doing so reflected a culture of fair play. And there was always the possibility, however remote, that there might _be_ a legitimate excuse.

"Not to you," Lewis said boldly.

Behind them, Elsie and Andrew both gasped. Carson managed to keep his temper.

"I see. Well, I have a good deal to say to you, but we'll leave that for the morning when we will review at length the duties of a footman, and the implications of break and enter and theft."

Again a sound of shock escaped Andrew. These were the highest crimes that someone in service might commit. But Lewis was indifferent.

"Go to bed."

Lewis shrugged by him and left without looking at the other two, who were standing there mouths agape.

"That ... young ... scoundrel!" Elsie declared, looking after him.

"Do you want me to make sure he's gone upstairs, Mr. Carson? Should I stand guard over him tonight?"

Now _there_ was a good man. "No, Andrew," he said, giving the young footman an appreciate pat on the shoulder. "Thank you for the offer. But Lewis isn't interested in stealing the family jewels - though, I daresay, we must make sure we lock up all of the offices. He just has a misguided sense of his own worth." He sighed a little. "Well. We'll be off and let you get to bed."

Andrew seemed startled by this, but yielded. He saw them to the door and locked it solidly behind them.

"I can't believe you didn't fire him on the spot!" Elsie declared, as they headed for home.

"I can't." It was painful to have to admit this. "Mr. Barrow hired him. He must also make the decision about whether he will stay or go."

Clearly she disagreed. "Whatever are you going to with him for three more days? You can't have him speaking to you like that before the staff and carrying on like that."

"No. But I can put him to polishing silver to keep him out of trouble. We've a great deal of silver at Downton, Elsie."

 ** _Saturday October 2, 1926_**

 **Anna and Mrs. Patmore and Andy**

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Patmore. I ought not to be bothering you while you're trying to work."

Anna and Mrs. Patmore did not often converse, not about things other than those with a direct bearing on the Abbey at least. But since the visit to Grassington two days earlier, Anna and John had spoken about almost nothing but the sweet little hotel in the picturesque village. How things might work there was something that was on Anna's mind. Who better to ask about the practical running of such an establishment than Mrs. Patmore, who managed not only a kitchen of a great house but a thriving bed-and-breakfast besides.

She had answered Anna's questions but it was clear to the ever-empathetic Anna that the cook's mind was elsewhere. It was unlikely to be with the dinner she was preparing as only the family would be present and Mrs. Patmore could put an ordinary meal together in her sleep. As Anna could offer no assistance to the cook in her distracting perturbations - Mrs. Patmore had never confided in her - the most Anna could do was to stop pestering hr.

"No, _I'm_ sorry, Anna," Mrs. Patmore said firmly. "I've got my troubles, that's all. Nothing earth-shattering," she added quickly to allay concern. "This little hotel sounds very nice. And the Dales. I went once to the creamery at Hawes." Her eyes lit up momentarily at the memory of that delightful culinary excursion. "The cheeses!" ***** She sighed. "But I'm not doing justice to your business questions."

"Another time," Anna said graciously and with a smile. She withdrew into the servants' hall and would have continued on her way upstairs but for the sight of Andy slumped in a chair, looking discouraged.

"Andy?"

His head was resting heavily on an upright arm and he shifted a little so he could look at her. "Anna." And then he seemed to remember himself and started to scramble to his feet. He was not obliged to show her such a sign of respect, but he did respect her and he liked her very much, too. His progress was forestalled by a gesture from Anna and she came over to him.

"What are you doing down here on your own doing nothing?" It wasn't a reprimand, merely a query.

He heaved a great breath and then did get up. "I _am_ doing nothing and I oughtn't to be, especially with Mr. Carson around here somewhere." His eyes went automatically to the passage beyond which was the butler's pantry. "But mostly I just want to be where Lewis isn't."

Anna nodded sympathetically. "Don't worry about him so much." Anna's forehead creased a little at the thought of the other footman. "I doubt he'll last."

"I'm surprised he's still here," Andy said, lowering his voice a little, "after the dressing down Mr. Carson gave him this morning. Sitting right there in the butler's pantry, looking at the books and drinking wine!"

The servants' hall being what it was, the story of Lewis's affront was already common knowledge so Anna only nodded. "He may have an idea that he's better than the lot of us."

"Oh, I _know_ that's what he thinks!"

Anna turned to go.

"Anna?"

"Yes?" When her eyes fell on Andy again he came over oddly flustered.

"It's not really ... Lewis ... that's on my mind." He paused and his mouth opened and then closed again. "It's ... How do you...?" He paused. "I mean ... what if you like someone and..." He faltered again.

"Is this about Daisy?" Anna asked gently and without a trace of a smile. Affairs of the heart were serious matters and Anna was not given to making fun of others in any case. And, too, Andy looked quite discouraged.

His cheeks coloured up a little and it looked for a moment as though he might deny it, but then his shoulders slumped in surrender. "Yes."

She waited for more.

"Only we get on well together, you know? And I thought maybe we really could get on, working with Mr. Mason at the farm, learning the life. That ... maybe ..."

Anna did not oblige him to finish that thought. "But Daisy thinks othewise?" she said.

He nodded. "It used to be all she talked about was moving to the farm and taking on the tenancy one day. And she used to talk to _me_ about it. Now she goes on about leaving, to go to school or to London." He exhaled heavily. "I don't know."

Anna didn't know either. She chatted with Daisy every once in a while and was aware of the fluctuations of which Andy spoke.

"Are you still thinking that Yorkshire is where _you_ want to be and that farming is something you want to do?" She did wonder. They all knew, downstairs, that Andy - the London East Ender - had become enamoured with the rustic life soon after arriving at Downton. Times changed. When Gwen Dawson, who had once been a maid at Downton, aspired to become a secretary she had felt the need to keep her ambitions to herself. Andy had never felt such pressure.

"I am," Andy replied earnestly. "It is. Someday." His enthusiasm was genuine and elicited a smile from Anna. It was an unusual career trajectory.

"Do you remember how you felt when you decided that?" she asked. "When you thought _This is it_!?"

Her question puzzled him but he nodded.

"Daisy is still looking," Anna observed wisely. "Her eyes have only recently been opened to the possibilities. She's spent most of her life in the kitchen at Downton and now she knows there's a world out there. Who knows what direction she'll choose?" It was all she could say.

He could concede that. "Have _you_ decided, then?" he asked abruptly.

"What?"

"What you were saying at lunch yesterday, about you and Mr. Bates leaving service."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, we are." She beamed. Their excitement was only growing. Though they'd assured each other that they didn't have to buy the first place they looked at, every time they spoke they found something else they liked about the Devonshire Inn and Grassington.

"I thought you liked Downton."

"We do. Very much. But ... we've a family now and...," she blushed a little saying so, "it's been our dream for a very long time to have a little hotel of our own."

A sudden smile flashed across Andy's face. "I understand that. Only I thought you'd like to stay in the Downton area."

"We would," Anna acknowledged. Grassington _was_ too far for a casual visit. And she did wonder how easy it would be to maintain ties with those she cared about at Downton. Would she have time for letters with all the cares of running a hotel? "But inns don't come available very day..."

"What about the Grantham Arms?"

"What about the Grantham Arms?"

Andy frowned a little, as though trying to retrieve a memory. "Aren't they ... the family who've been running it ... aren't they giving it up?

"Are they?" Anna had heard nothing of this. "How do you know that?"

"Mr. Ryder," Andy said promptly. "He's got it from Mr. Molesley." He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, for his eyes had fallen on the clock. "I'd better get the table set upstairs. If Mr. Carson knew I'd been gathering wool this long, he'd have my head."

Anna hardly heard him. The Grantham Arms! How had that crucial bit of local gossip eluded her? Why hadn't anyone else mentioned it? She roused herself. She, too, had work awaiting her. But as she climbed the stairs to the gallery, she did wonder. Did John know about this?

 _ **Sunday, October 3, 1926**_

 **Upstairs Tea**

On Sunday afternoon the family gathered for tea. Robert had gone to the Dower House earlier that he might escort his mother personally.

"To what do I owe this special consideration?" she had asked, affecting wariness even as she tightened her arm about his and readily returned the smile he gave her.

"To the fact that you are my mother," he replied jauntily.

She accepted that.

Mary and Tom were there with Cora when they entered the library, as were Carson and Lewis.

Violet made a bit of a fuss over Tom. Though they stood at the social poles of the family, once Violet had conceded the reality of Sybil's inappropriate marriage she had allowed herself to assess Tom as a person and quickly come to like him. That dear Sybil had loved him so much as to sacrifice all that she knew for him had also impressed Violet favourably. Her concern for his recent troubles was thus grounded in personal affection.

"How are you, Tom?"

"I'm well. Thank you" He in his turn had become quite fond of her and expressed this in part through an indulgence of the aristocratic insensibilities into which she sometimes deliberately and sometimes inadvertently ventured. Today, however, he was subdued as he had been for the past week. Ever since the fire.

"And Sybbie?" Violet asked, as she sank into the sofa. Of course she was always interested in her dear great-grandchild, but she also knew that the way to stir any parent from introspection was ask after their child.

"She's settled down again. I think she'll be all right." Though he did not say it, Tom believed that being back at the Abbey had played a role in that.

"It was all very traumatic for her," Robert intoned. He and Tom were still grating on each other over this, though at a subsurface level.

But Violet shrugged away her son's words. "She's a tough little thing. Have you any plans, Tom?"

So he had to admit to it. "No. I think the wisest course for us is to stay at Downton until this ... this problem is resolved. Not that whoever it is can't touch us at Downton...," there had after all been a few incidents here, "...but .. I agree with Robert that the greater traffic around us makes for a safer environment."

Cora stared pointedly at her husband at this. Tom was trying. Robert nodded and desisted.

Lewis poured the tea under Carson's watchful eye. Mary wondered at this. Thus far no one had had even the smallest of complaints about the new footman and though Carson might be excused for not accepting the testimony of others on this, he did come across overly attentive. Mary stared at him until he looked her way and then raised an inquiring eyebrow as she nodded almost imperceptibly toward Lewis. But Carson gave her no satisfaction.

"Tell me..." Violet had turned her attention to her daughter-in-law. "Are you persisting in this ill-advised inspection of the workhouse?"

Perplexed at Carson's unresponsiveness, Mary was still looking toward the two servants even as she listened to her grandmother's question and thus saw the expression that crossed Lewis's face at these words. It was one of incredulity. It seemed that Lewis was quite as repulsed by the idea of the workhouse visit as her grandmother was. The look was only there for an instant but it took Mary aback a little. Then she realized that Carson was now staring at her and when she met his eye he nodded toward the footman. _There_. There was the answer to his close oversight of the young man. Mary, and indeed the whole family, had long been complacent about and even encouraging of Carson expressing his opinion on such matters. But he had earned the right to convey his feelings through decades of devoted service and reliable discretion. A footman could not take such liberties. Mary said nothing, however, confident that Carson would address this behaviour.

Cora ignored the disdainful tone of the question put to her and responded as though it had been asked in genuine interest. "I am," she said buoyantly. "When Isobel was here on Friday afternoon we decided to put it off until after the Mertons' dinner party, though. Just so it doesn't distract them."

"Are we invited?" Robert asked lightly.

"Of course we are." Cora rolled her eyes at him though she smiled, too.

"Henry and I are not," Mary said. "They're trying to keep it small _and_ attend to some of their social debts. I don't envy you an evening in the company of Lord and Lady Metcalfe and Sir Evan Fares."

"I don't care who else is there so long as they have a better cook than the Northrops!" Robert declared.

"I understand you're going to supervise the staff for Lady Merton, Carson." Cora was the last member of the family to engage Carson in casual conversation in this setting, but he offered a good diversion from the topic of the workhouse.

"I am, my lady," he said solemnly, taking his eyes off Lewis for a moment.

Though the footman was bent over the tea tray, Mary saw his eyes flicker in a second display of contempt, this time, she thought, toward Carson.

"Yes, it is a great sacrifice to the progress of our book," Violet put in, "but it is an act of mercy, really. Well done, Carson."

As was frequently the case, Carson and Violet saw an event like the impending dinner at Crawley House in the same light and they exchanged self-satisfied glances. Though he held his tongue, Tom shot Mary a look that told her exactly what he thought of _that_. But Mary responded with a shrug. Granny would be Granny and Carson had always been her ally.

"She was looking forward to her visit with George," Cora said. "She mentioned that she'd like to have him overnight at Crawley House."

"I always encourage her in that," Mary said. "If only her fairy tales weren't all socialist morality lessons. I have to keep reminding her that George is going to be the Earl of Grantham one day."

"I doubt she's forgotten that," her mother noted mildly.

"Have you heard from Henry, Mary?"

As Violet's gaze shifted to her granddaughter, Robert and Cora caught each other's eye. They were worried about Mama and she perhaps suspected as much and seemed determined to show them that she was as much a player in family affairs as she had ever been. That wasn't a bad thing.

Mary looked deeply into her grandmother's penetrating gaze before replying. She had not confided in the old lady as she had to Carson about her doubts with regard to Henry, but Granny seldom needed hard evidence to make perceptive conjectures.

"I have," she said brightly. "He sent a telegram on arrival on Friday. The journey was pleasant and the cars in Berlin are very impressive!" She laughed at this. Henry had said other things, too, - briefly - but she would not share those here. Smiling at her grandmother, who continued to stare at her for a moment, she noted peripherally that Carson at least seemed to breathe more easily at her response.

"Rosamund is coming next week," Robert announced.

"Wonderful!" said Mary, turning his way. She enjoyed her aunt's company. Rosamund had over the years developed relationships with each of her nieces and by adroit management avoided giving anyone the impression than another was her favourite.

"Why?" asked Violet.

"Mama," Robert said, mildly reproachful. He reached out to take her hand. "She is coming to see us all. Is that so strange?" Robert was not a master of subterfuge but he had worked on this statement that he might make it as smoothly as possible. And he was not being disingenuous, for he was very fond of his sister and she was equally fond of her brother and his family. He had not as yet conveyed to Rosamund his motive in inviting her. Such concerns were better communicated in person.

"She should come more often," Cora added. She, too, could say this without guile. She liked Rosamund.

"With a house on Belgrave Square, why would she?" Mary said this reflexively, without thought for the particular context of her grandmother's health. She caught herself only after she had spoken and then got up to join Tom to conceal her _faux pas_.

"A big lonely house," Cora said, not impressed with Mary's input.

" _My_ house is too small a space in which to be lonely," Violet said airily. "I am always tripping over the servants."

Though Tom might indulge Violet's eccentricities, it was sometimes a challenge. He stuffed a bit of cake into his mouth to avoid making a remark. Mary suppressed a smile at this.

"And how _are_ things downstairs at the Dower House?" Mary asked, in an attempt to redeem herself. "Really, Granny, I don't know why you put up with servants who bicker as much as Spratt and Denker do. Carson would never have put up with it." She managed _not_ to glance at Lewis as she said this.

"I am helpless before them," Violet said emphatically. "And they've a new bone of contention between them at the moment. Mercifully I am still in the dark about it."

She fooled no one with her fretful declaration. It had been clear to all concerned for some time that Granny tolerated the friction between her butler and lady's maid because it amused her and that she could put an end to it any time she liked.

The chiming of the doorbell startled them all.

" _I'll_ get it," Carson said curtly to Lewis, indicating that the footman might replenish the tea. This was less a comment on Lewis than on the butler himself. He could not pour tea, but he could still answer the door.

"Another caller," Robert said. "Our Sundays are usually quieter."

"What _did_ Mr. Kearns want?" Cora had seen village innkeeper arriving earlier but Robert had dealt with him and then left for the Dower House.

Robert sighed. "Another change. He wanted to tell me that he is relinquishing the lease to the Grantham Arms."

"What? But they've been there for ages!" Mary declared.

"Not such a surprise," Cora admitted. "His wife's not well."

"So he said," Robert went on. "They've been mulling it over for a while now, going back and forth about it. But he says she just can't face another winter in Yorkshire."

"Do Anna and Bates know about this?"

Before Robert could reply the sound of agitated voices in the Great Hall distracted them.

"Carson," Robert said, sounding a little gratified. "Always guarding our sacred tea-time solitude." But then he frowned. The exchange sounded heated.

"Who could be making such a fuss?" Violet was put out.

Robert rose and he and Tom together stepped in the direction of the front door. But before they had taken five paces, Carson reappeared and he was glowering. In his wake was a well-dressed youth perhaps sixteen years of age. Whatever the unorthodox nature of his arrival - unknown to those present and without an invitation - and the tenor of his interaction with the butler, it was clear to the family at a glance that this boy was one of them. Mary, Cora, and Violet looked on with interest. Tom, acknowledging that it was Robert's place to receive Carson's account, stood back.

"My lord." Carson was seething and not bothering to conceal it. "This _young gentleman_ has been most insistent on seeing you this minute. He would make a scene rather than make an appointment."

Robert indicated with a discreet gesture that he understood Carson's dilemma and accepted the butler's decision to admit the young man. But he did glance inquiringly toward the intruder.

"He would not give his name, my lord," Carson responded, easily interpreting this unspoken question.

At this the boy in question came forward.

"Lord Grantham."

The very form with which he addressed Robert confirmed his status among the upper echelons. Not for him the deferential 'my lord.'

"Yes?"

"Your man is mistaken, Lord Grantham. I am not here to see you, but rather...," he pivoted on one heel and his hard, clear-eyed glare focused on Tom, "... _you_." The fact that he didnot address Tom by title or name sent as clear a message as had his manner toward Robert. Every member of the family and Carson, too, clenched with apprehension, but before anyone could act, the boy spoke again.

"My name is John Dunsany. And I've come to tell you that nine nights ago I set fire to your home."

 *** Author's Note.** Ah, the Wensleydale Creamery! The cheeses! Been there. I'm with Mrs. Patmore on this one. Or, rather, she's with me.


End file.
